


Mycroft, MI6 and You

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Aladdin references, Bullying, Class Differences, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Mycroft has visions of himself being the next James Bond, Reader has her BAMF moments, Reader is daughter of the Head of MI6, Strained family relationships, Strong Language, Teenlock to adults, breaking free from family expectations, drug references, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-05 01:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 47,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6683251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft and you are worlds apart-you're rich and he's poor. But when fate intervenes to bring you together and throw Mycroft into MI6 will your friendship survive?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, hope you enjoy this. :)
> 
> This is just a short little chapter to start us off, but updates will be regular. :)
> 
> Thank you as ever for all of your support. :)

The town is cracked, divided. A river splits it in two. To the north lies the richer houses and wealth, to the south lies poverty and the trappings of birth. Everything is different, the houses, which are drab in the south and more likely to be coated in chipped, peeling paint to the size of the gardens, which are likely to be vast in the north. The people and their upbringing are different too. If you’re born in the north than you are more likely to attend the big private school at the top of town, or another private school further away. Southern children have no hope of ever attending a private school, let alone one in another town. Instead they’re left to the grim, dull building that holds the comprehensive school in the heart of the south. 

 

You were born in the north. Mycroft Holmes in the south. But somehow you've ended up at the same school and your lives are about to entwine. 

 

Our story starts on a hot day at the end of April in the crumbling building that is apparently fit to host a few hundred teenagers for school. The building, despite its weak structure has three floors, black and white checked floors, rows upon rows of lockers and a hybrid of students, all made to wear white shirts, a red and white tie and either a black skirt that has to fall below the knees or dark trousers.

 

Up until that day-the day after your sixteenth birthday-Mycroft Holmes has always been in the background of your life. He’s the tallest boy in your year, and although he’s threatening to turn into someone quite handsome he hasn’t yet lost the puppy fat attributed to him. All in all he stands out. 

 

You've just grabbed your sketchbook from your locker and are carrying it in your arms down the hallway, heading towards the stairs so that you can go downstairs for Art when you come across the wankers, so named for obvious reasons. 

 

Wanker number one-real name Mickey Ross, who has limp brown hair falling around his shoulders and grey eyes-starts it all off with a yell of, “Oi posho!” 

 

Its been like this ever since you first persuaded your parents to let you come to this normal comprehensive school, rather than the fee paying school they’d wished to send you to. 

 

You don’t automatically react therefore. But then when wanker number two-real name Andy Jenkins, who has scruffy blond hair and hazel eyes-grabs at your arm as you try to go past them, you jerk your arm away, before you come to a stop. 

 

Stopping is fatal. Something, which you really should have known by now. For as soon as you do wanker number one and two and the four others that are with them move to close your escape route off. 

 

“What’s your problem posho? Too up yourself to talk to us now?” Ross asks. 

 

“Excuse me,” you say, looking at a spot above Ross’s shoulder rather than at any of them. You adjust the strap of your back on your shoulder and attempt to move forwards. 

 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Ross asks. 

 

“Yeah get back posho, we want to talk to you. Find out how the other half live,” Jenkins says, pushing you back. 

 

A little breath leaves your lips. Why can’t they just leave you alone? It’s not like you've ever done anything to them. All you've done since coming to this school is try and get on with your life and mind your own business, yet they've had it in for you since day one. 

 

“Is it true that your dad has a robot that does everything for him?”- Ross begins. 

 

“Is it true that your dad _is_ a robot?” Jenkins quips, obviously thinking that he’s being funny now. The others titter around him.

 

“Please just let me go past,” you say, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. 

 

“ ‘Please just let me go past,’” Ross mimics, swaying his hips a little as he does so. The other boys roar with laughter, their ties swinging about from around their shirt collars and spit flying from their mouths. 

 

“What are you going to do if we don’t let you go past posho? Set your robot dad on us?” Ross asks. 

 

“No, I”- you begin, breaking off when Jenkins leans forwards to knock your sketchbook from your hands. 

 

A little breath escapes you when you see how your sketchbook is spread open on the grimy, chewing gum littered floor. 

 

“Oh look, I think she’s going to cry,” Ross states. 

 

A muscle twitches in your jaw, before you crouch down so that you can retrieve your sketchbook. 

 

“Posho! Posho! Posho!” the boys start to chant, no doubt trying to encourage you to cry. 

 

You swallow and lift your sketchbook up from the floor, cradling it to your chest. You hope that none of your sketches are ruined and wish that you could do something to stop their teasing. Something that would stop it once and for all. For now however your priority has to be to get away. Before you can stand up and attempt to though there’s a rough cry of, _“Hey!”_

 

Your head jerks up. In the gap between Ross and Jenkins you see Mycroft, just having come upstairs and now eyeing the boys with distaste as he comes towards you. He’s not wearing his jumper. No one is in this hot weather. His tie swings about him. 

 

“Oh look it’s ginger snap,” Jenkins quips, despite the fact that Mycroft’s hair is more auburn as the boys turn towards him. 

 

Slowly you rise to your feet and Mycroft glances at you quickly as you do so. It might be only the briefest of looks but you get the sense that you’re being x-rayed. 

 

He stops just a little bit away from you, his eyes going back to the boys. 

 

“What do you want ginger snap? Thinking of trying to rescue her? You big pansy,” Ross comments with some disgust in his voice. You bite at your lip, whilst a muscle twitches in Mycroft’s jaw. 

 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything. He just draws himself up to his full height and stares down at the boys, his eyes cold. 

 

You swallow, thinking that you wouldn't want to be stared down like that. 

 

The boys must think that despite Mycroft being a ‘ginger snap,’ and a ‘big pansy,’ that they can’t win against him in a fight, despite the fact that they outnumber him. They just make a few incomprehensible grunts of mutiny, before they shrug and turn to move past you. 

 

“You got lucky posho,” Ross whispers on his way past you. But when Mycroft clears his throat threateningly he soon speeds up. 

 

Your lips part when despite the swarm of people filling the corridor it feels as if it’s just Mycroft and you there. He looks at you again in a calculating fashion, before he makes to lumber past you wordlessly. 

 

You’re in so much shock about the fact that he’s just going to act as if nothing’s happened that for a moment you just stand there. Then you get a hold of yourself and turn around. “Thank you,” you call. 

 

He stops. Then, almost in slow motion, he turns so that he’s facing you again. 

 

You just look at him for a moment, before your lips curve up into a tentative smile. 

 

His lips quirk upward without being able to help it. Then he seems to get a hold of himself once more. He shrugs a little, before he says, “They've teased my brother for years,” as if it had just made sense for him to act that way. 

 

 _‘And you,’_ you think. But rather than saying that or anything else you just give a little uncertain nod and smile at him again, before you both turn away from each other. 

 

*

 

You think about the incident that night, whilst you sit on top of your bed idly sketching in your sketchbook. 

 

In fact it gets to the point where you’re thinking about what had happened so much that you’re barely concentrating on what you’re doing. You put your pencil aside and close the sketchbook, letting the few inconsequential squiggles that resemble Mycroft’s face be hidden from you, before you put it down on your bedside table. You curse when you accidentally set off a sensor that has the wooden top of the cabinet sliding back to reveal a digital screen. The screen has a map of the world on, and buttons to make calls and e-mails in case of emergency. You definitely don’t need it now. You shove at the cabinet a little to get it back to normal, before you get up and pull a shawl around you to combat the cool summer evening. You push the double doors open and step out onto the balcony.

 

The little group of wankers may not have got everything right-the last time you checked your dad’s definitely not a robot, he is in fact the Head of MI6, although with his love of gadgets you wouldn't be surprised if he one day turned into one-but you definitely come from a richer family than the rest of your classmates. You live in a mansion with vast gardens behind the back of it, which is set back a little from the street by a path and a lawn. It is the street though that you can see from your balcony, and looking out from it always makes you feel a longing to escape from the posh houses that surround you. Tonight, as you think about what had happened with Mycroft earlier, you only feel such a thing even more. Not only that but you wish for someone that you could call a real friend at last. 

 

On the other side of town, across the river and in what looks like a world away from yours, Mycroft’s standing at the back of the terraced house that he lives in with his parents and his brother, standing in the tiny gap that separates the house from the faded green back gate and gazing up at the stars, whilst he muses about all that had happened that day. 

 

Usually seeing someone else being picked on by the usual trouble makers in his year wouldn't prompt such a heroic effort inside of him. After all he has enough of a job keeping track of and protecting his brother Sherlock, who is three years younger than him, without trying to protect anyone else too. But when he’d seen the way that they’d been surrounding you like that a flare of anger had burst up inside his chest and something had snapped inside him. The fact that he’d still been thrumming with rage from witnessing Ross kicking his brother in the stomach that morning as Sherlock had been lying on the floor, trying to protect himself by curling up, hadn’t helped his usual ‘stay out of it unless it involves Sherlock,’ stance either. 

 

His mind goes back to your reaction. He’d been surprised when you’d thanked him. He’d expected you to just ignore what he’d done, either out of embarrassment or because of the differences in your class, not that you’d ever acted in a way that suggested you thought yourself high and mighty before. Mind you Mycroft hasn’t met a single posh person aside from you in his whole life though. So he doesn’t exactly have lots of examples to compare your behaviour to. 

 

He turns his head and looks back at the house over his shoulder. The darkness defines its shape, whilst the lights that are on inside make it look warm and comforting despite the fact that it’s so ordinary looking. He turns to face the front and the gate. Something strange is telling him to go and take a walk past your house. He hesitates a moment. Then he moves forwards slowly, carefully lifts up the latch and steps through the gate. 

 

He continues the walk robotically, his heart racing because of the fact that he’s doing something so unusual and different and his head turning this way and that on the lookout for danger. 

 

Thank God it’s only about a quarter-of-an-hour walk. Though when he steps as casually as he can into the posher side of town and walks past the houses that are probably more expensive than two streets worth of them where he lives he can’t help but feel even more uncomfortable and uneasy. He begins to think that he should turn around and hurry home. After all you’re probably fine, you’re probably not even thinking on what had happened, not when you've got the warmth and grandness of one of these houses surrounding you. You’re probably enjoying yourself right now, doing whatever people who have money to spend do, and most definitely not giving him a second’s thought. 

 

He’s feeling quite sure of this when he draws level with your house. When he sees that it’s mostly basked in shadow with only a few lights still left on he makes to go past it in a rather faltering fashion, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes looking across at it. He’s almost gone past when he sees a figure bathed in light that’s spilling out from one of the rooms as they stand on the balcony. He stops and swallows, before he takes a step back so that he can be standing exactly diagonally across from said figure. 

 

Although he cannot see clearly he feels sure that it’s you, and he just stares at you for a moment, whilst you do the same back to him. 

 

Then he sees you raise a faltering hand, before you wave at him tentatively.

 

Mycroft swallows and looks around, before he looks back at you and waves quickly, stowing his hand back in his pocket as soon as he does. 

 

You spend another moment just staring at each other. Then Mycroft, aware of how odd the situation might look if any one were to see him, speedily moves on. 

 

*

 

“Mykie, where have you been?” is the first thing his mother-short with grey hair that threatens, but doesn’t quite touch her shoulders and blue-green eyes-asks when he gets home and steps into the kitchen.

 

“I just went for a walk,” Mycroft replies in a long-suffering fashion, before he grabs a couple of biscuits from the tin and makes to go upstairs to his room with them. 

 

As he sits on the edge of his bed and nibbles them he can’t help but think upon how it feels like things could be different and feel oddly excited and happier. 

 

*

 

You feel in similar good spirits as you step back inside your bedroom and turn so that you can close the doors to the balcony. When you’d seen Mycroft you’d felt like somehow you’d brought him to you just by thinking about him, and after your exchanged waves you can’t help but-for the first time in years-feel excited about going to school the next day. 

 

*

 

“Hey, mind if I sit here?” you ask, gesturing to the free spot on the bench against the wall where Mycroft’s sat outside in the middle courtyard eating his packed lunch. 

 

He shakes his head since his mouth’s full of ham sandwich, so you sit down beside him, before you slip your bag off your shoulder and move to pull out your own lunch. Today you've got a cheese and cucumber sandwich, a juice carton with a straw and two chocolate chip cookies. 

 

Still, as hungry as you are, lunch is rather secondary. For this is the first time all day that you've been given a proper chance to speak to Mycroft. Sure you've seen him about and you've exchanged the odd look, nod and tight smile with one another, but you haven’t had the chance to speak to him alone until now. 

 

It’s odd though. For although you’re brimming with all the possible things that you could be saying you don’t seem to be actually able to say any of them. You just sit rather awkwardly beside each other for a few moments, you tugging your cling film off your sandwich and Mycroft clearing his throat and shifting his position, one leg extended in front of him. 

 

You just look at the sheer length of it for a moment, whilst you nibble on your sandwich, the brimming energy of hope and possibility now being turned into nerves and tension because you feel like you should be saying something. 

 

In the end it’s Mycroft who speaks first, Mycroft who asks, “Why do you always bring your own lunch?” curiously as he peers down at you. You swallow your mouthful and look at him questioningly. “Sorry, I just, well I do it because I wouldn't be able to afford to eat lunch in the cafeteria all week,” Mycroft goes on. His cheeks flush pink. “In any case it’s probably best that my brother has access to a hot meal if he so wishes, that’s why I leave him to…but anyway, you clearly can afford to do such a thing, so…” he trails off. 

 

You bite at your lip. You’d been rather hoping that the differences in your class wouldn't come up. You lower your sandwich back into your lunch box and lean back so that you’re resting against the wall. 

 

“Sorry I”- Mycroft begins; clearly worried that he’s upset you. 

 

“I used to eat in the canteen,” you start, thinking that it’s probably just easier to be honest with him, “In my first year, but I soon found that it was easier just to bring my own lunch.”

 

“Because of them?” Mycroft asks you quietly. 

 

You nod. 

 

“Still, you must be able to have some more interesting sandwich fillings than me, all I ever seem to end up with is ham,” Mycroft says in an attempt to cheer you up, and you smile a little in spite of yourself. 

 

“Why did you walk past my house last night?” you find yourself asking, peering up at him. 

 

He swallows and looks away from you. “I guess part of me thought that if I did so, even if I didn't see you, it would make me feel better about what had happened,” he confesses, looking off into the distance towards the other side where there’s benches by the wall protected by a tin canopy just like the one you’re both sat underneath. 

 

“Did it?” you ask. 

 

He shifts his position. “Not at first,” he confesses, “But when I saw you then yes, I think it did.”

 

“Are we friends?”

 

Mycroft considers this for a moment. “As long as I get to go to your house at some point,” he says with a bit of a smile on his face as he looks at you. 

 

“I’d rather go to yours,” you admit, “But if you want to then fine, you can even come after school today if you like.”

 

“Are you sure no one would mind?” Mycroft asks. 

 

You pick up your sandwich again and take another bite. You shake your head, whilst you swallow your mouthful. “No, I think Mother would be delighted actually, she’s been wanting me to bring a friend home for ages. I think she’s under the impression I haven’t got one. Something that was sad but true until about two minutes ago.”

 

Mycroft feels torn between a smile and a frown. But as he looks away from you and spots his brother doggedly making his way across the courtyard he calls, “Sherlock!” You give a little start at his sudden shout. “Sorry,” Mycroft apologizes, half-turning back to you. 

 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him quickly, finishing off your sandwich and watching as Sherlock-tall for his thirteen years with a mop of dark hair and a tendency to scowl-stops and slowly turns towards you both. 

 

His brow furrows, before he slouches across, coming to a stop just in front of you. “Yes?” he asks, looking in between you.

 

“When you get home tell Mummy that I won’t be back for a while. I'm going to F/N’s,” Mycroft informs him in a clear and concise manner. 

 

Sherlock’s face brightens at the mention of his older brother going around to your house. “Can I come too?” he asks. 

 

You open your mouth, but Mycroft gets there first with, “No, we can’t both go or there’ll be no one around to inform Mummy,” before he adds a reluctant, “Maybe some other time,” when his brother’s face falls. 

 

Sherlock nods, not saying another word and turns away, his dark curls bouncing on top of his head. 

 

“He could have come,” you say, moving onto your cookies, “I'm sure one of you could have phoned your mum from school, or-you do have your own mobiles don’t you?”

 

“Yes we do,” Mycroft says, opening his packet of roast chicken flavour crisps, “They’re a bit battered and the ‘1’ button only works on mine whenever it feels like it, but yes we do have them. I suppose we could have done that. But my brother he…well, he can be a little bit unmanageable at times… _rude_ ,” Mycroft says carefully, picking at his crisps, “Although he doesn’t mean to be. Not always anyway.”

 

“Still, maybe he can come around some other time?” you suggest, finishing off the last of your cookies. 

 

Mycroft smiles as he looks back at you.


	2. Houses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and you visit each other's houses.

You don’t have the last class of the day together. Mycroft’s in the top group of science, whilst you’re in the middle, so you agree to meet each other by the gates. 

 

“Hey,” you say once you join him, freeing your hair from the ponytail that you’d put it up in because of the experiment that you’d been doing. 

 

“Hello,” he nods formally. 

 

You begin to lead the way towards the other side of town. 

 

As you go more of a conversation breaks out between you, and as you share what classes you enjoy and how it’s amazing that some teachers are still teachers at all with the lack of control they have, things grow quite pleasant. 

 

You can tell however that as soon as you cross over the river into the richer side of town that Mycroft feels more uncomfortable and self-aware. 

 

“Are you sure that it’s going to be all right for me to come over like this?” he asks, looking at you rather anxiously and beginning to fidget a little with his clothes. 

 

“Course,” you say, “Just remember that posh people are just like normal people who wear more expensive clothes and who can’t talk properly.”

 

He lets out a chuckle and you feel pleased to hear it. “You don’t,” he says suddenly. You look at him, “Talk all posh I mean.”

 

You smile. “Believe me it’s not from my mother’s lack of trying.” He smiles. “Here we are,” you say, guiding him through the gate that leads up to your house. 

 

He follows through after you and looks rather awestruck by the dominant size and structure of the mansion. You smile. You close the gate so that he doesn’t have to and his fingers jerk off of it, before he looks back at you. 

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles apologetically, “It’s just”- he breaks off, waving his hand at the house. 

 

“It’s all right,” you say, finding his behaviour rather endearing. Not to mention that you find it interesting to see someone else’s reaction to things that you've long since gotten used to. 

 

“Should I take my shoes off?” Mycroft asks, trying to be sensible as you both draw closer to the house. 

 

You look at him. He’s got his head slightly tilted back and his gaze fixed on the house. You look down at the rather scruffy pair of black school shoes that he’s wearing. “Um, yes, probably,” you say. “You can take them off in the entrance hall.”

 

He nods and as you quickly go up the couple of steps that lead up to the house he follows after you. 

 

You push the navy door open and lead the way inside. 

 

 _“Wow,”_ Mycroft breathes as he looks around. 

 

The entrance hall is probably bigger than the vast majority of his house, and with its blue and white chequered floor, polished banisters and blue stair carpet he’s never seen anything so grand in all his life. 

 

There are two staircases, one by the left wall and the other by the right. They lead up to a balcony, which has a host of rooms behind it. 

 

“F/N dear is that you?” your mother asks, coming out of one of the doors upstairs and making her way downstairs via the staircase on the right. 

 

Mycroft swallows and you can feel him straightening up and adjusting the tie that’s swinging down loosely from his shirt. 

 

“Yes Mother, I brought a friend home, I hope that’s okay?” you get out.

 

“A friend?” Mother asks, stopping halfway downstairs and adjusting the long black dress that she’s wearing as her eyes swoop down to fix on first you and then Mycroft, who’s tugs off his rucksack, before he slips it onto the floor. “Oh, of course,” she says, hastening down and hurrying across to you both. 

 

“Mycroft Holmes. I'm very pleased to meet you Mrs. L/N,” Mycroft says politely, stepping forwards and offering her his hand. 

 

“Goodness you’re very polite for someone brought up in”- Mother begins, before she breaks off hastily when you hiss at her. “Sorry, you must forgive me.”

 

“It’s fine,” Mycroft says, running a flustered hand back through his hair, and you can tell that he feels awkward. 

 

“I was just going to show Mycroft my room Mother. It’s fine that he stays for dinner isn't it?” you ask. 

 

“I don’t have to, I wouldn't want”- Mycroft begins when your mother looks uncertainly between you both.

 

“Of course, yes, yes that’s fine. I’ll tell Hettie to lay another place at the table,” Mother says. Hettie’s one of the servants. “Oh F/N, your father’s in the study. I think he wanted a quick word with you.” You sigh a little. It’s typical that Father wants to see you the one day you bring a friend home, quite often you’re left to your own devices. “It was nice to see you Mycroft dear,” your mother adds, bringing you out of your thought and giving him a little smile and a wave as she bustles off towards the kitchen. 

 

Mycroft’s head jerks up from where he’s been untying his laces. He gives her a little awkward wave back, nearly overbalancing as he does so. 

 

You slip off your own shoes to be polite. Usually you wouldn't bother doing such a thing. Then you guide Mycroft upstairs, before you turn to him. “All right, so my father’s study is down the hallway there,” you nod towards the furthest door that’s on the right, “If you go through that door there”-

 

“The second one on the left?” Mycroft checks, making sure that he’s reading your pointed hand correctly. 

 

You nod. “Then straight upstairs and off to the left when there comes a break in the hallway, you’ll find my room’s at the far end.” Mycroft nods. “Do you want me to repeat that?”

 

“No,” Mycroft says with a faint smile, “I think I’ve got it.”

 

You smile. You’d thought that you probably wouldn't have to. Not with him being in all of the higher classes after all. “I promise I won’t be long,” you tell him. 

 

He nods and then you make to go your separate ways. 

 

*

 

Mycroft feels in awe as he finishes climbing the stairs and comes out into a hallway. The floor’s wooden and a satin looking blue carpet covers the middle of it. Door after door lay on either side of him and impressive paintings of great size lay in between each one. 

 

Mycroft moves forwards, studying the paintings as he goes. Some are of the house, both angles taken from the outside and the inside; one is even of the blue-carpeted staircase in the entrance hall. Others are of your mother and a man who Mycroft assumes must be your father. But one, right before the point where the hallway breaks off is of you, and as Mycroft realizes such a thing he finds himself stopping so that he can look up at it properly. 

 

You look a little younger than you are now. Mycroft guesses that you might have been around thirteen-fourteen when it had been conducted. You’re wearing a black dress, not dissimilar to the one that your mother had been wearing in fact, and your feet are bare. One of them rests on a small stack of old books, whilst the other is almost pointed upon the ground. Your hands are deliberately poised too, one of them off to the side of you with the tips of your fingers pointing diagonally to the ground as the other carries a globe. Your face is directed towards the painter, and Mycroft sees that you’re wearing a rather fierce expression indeed, almost scowling, whilst your eyes look dark. The background too is murky, there seem to be some books or manuscripts behind you, but aside from that you’re shrouded in darkness. 

 

Just taking it all in and seeing how important you look, even though you’re the same age as him, makes Mycroft’s head spin a little. Not to mention that with his rumpled white shirt, loose tie hanging down from around his collar and dark trousers it makes him feel even more like he doesn’t belong there and like maybe he should leave. He doesn’t want to be rude though. He’s been invited for dinner so he’ll stay. 

 

He swallows and fidgets with his tie again, whilst he pulls himself together, before he attempts to smooth down his hair. Then he turns his gaze away from you and makes his way to your room. 

 

Stepping inside it makes another breath leave him. Your room is probably as big as the combination of his, his brother’s and the bathroom at his house. Whilst the bed alone is massive. It must be at least a king-size. He takes a few steps towards it and looks around. Right at the far end doors lead out to the balcony. The bed, which has a plush, white duvet upon it, several brown cushions and fairy lights strung around the headboard dominates the middle of the wall on the right. Whilst a large desk that has an expensive looking laptop, a CD player and various papers upon it, along with two bookshelves either side and a CD rack fill the wall on the left. It’s largely neat but it’s a little untidy too, with the odd piece of clothing on the floor along with the odd magazine. Mycroft notices that there’s a wardrobe and a chest of drawers to the left behind him. Posters of various bands, TV actors and quotes that you must appreciate fill a lot of space on the walls, some hung up a little haphazardly, some neatly, and Mycroft’s just gone forward to look at one, which has a logo of a band on and a picture of the band performing live within said logo when you burst into the room. 

 

“Sorry about that,” you say, throwing your school bag off to the left by the bookshelf and running a hand through your hair. Your mind’s still on the lecture Father had just given you, about how although you’ll be working for him in the future you should still try and do your best in the exams that you've got coming up. He’d made you go through all the results of the past papers you've done and hadn’t been happy about the sixty-seven percent you've been averaging in your maths papers. 

 

You try and get your head off that as Mycroft says, “It’s all right,” whilst he turns towards you, “Your room’s very nice F/N.”

 

“Oh thanks,” you say, padding across to the bed so that you can sit on top of it, and you find yourself beginning to cool down. 

 

“I liked the painting of you too,” Mycroft says, coming to join you. He sits down on the other side of the bed when you encourage him to do so. 

 

“Oh, you didn't see that monstrosity did you?” you groan, feeling irritated, “The one where I was doing that stupid pose?” 

 

“It wasn't stupid,” Mycroft protests, “I”- he breaks off when you jump off the bed with a frown on your face and cross the room to your bookshelf. 

 

You pull a few books off the shelf at random and stick them in a pile on the floor. “Right, come here then,” you say, beckoning him across, and he pulls a bit of a face when after he does so you gesture for him to rest his foot on the pile of books. “Go on,” you say. When he gestures a little embarrassedly at the rather dirty pair of white socks that he’s wearing you say, “It’s fine,” so he tentatively places his sock clad foot upon them. You look at him in satisfaction. You turn around and scurry further down to your desk, scrunching up one of the papers in a ball, before you hurry back and hand it to him. You have to smile at the rather awkward uncomfortable face he pulls as he does the same pose you’d done for the painting. “See?” you say, quirking one of your eyebrows up. 

 

“Okay you win,” Mycroft relents, letting out a bit of a breath as he smiles at you. 

 

You grin, taking the paper from him and throwing it in the waste-basket that’s by the door. Then you go across to sit back on the bed. 

 

“Should I?”- Mycroft begins, gesturing to the pile of books as he steps off them and then to the bookshelf. 

 

You shake your head, so after a last little look at them he comes to sit beside you. 

 

“Can I go to your house tomorrow?” you ask, lying down on your back and shaping your hands so that it looks like you’re filming the ceiling. 

 

Mycroft turns his head and peers down at you. “I don’t know why you’d want to come to mine,” he says, rubbing at his nose, “It’s nothing like this.”

 

You sigh a little. Then you lower your hands to the duvet, before you lift yourself up a little so that you can look at him. “Come and lie down,” you tell him.

 

“Your parents”- Mycroft begins, looking a little anxiously back to the door. 

 

You snort. “They won’t care. Besides this is what friends do, they lie on a bed and talk about stuff. I’ve seen it happen in films all the time.” Films, TV and books being the main source of where you've picked up on what a good friendship should be like. 

 

A slow smile creeps over Mycroft’s face at your statement, but he still hesitates for a moment, before a little breath escapes him and he lies down beside you. 

 

Feeling more satisfied you smile and roll onto your side so that you can look at him properly. “I'm sure your house is wonderful,” you tell him. 

 

He huffs out a breath, his hands on his stomach, whilst his eyes gaze up at the ceiling. “It’s small and cramped, _tiny_ compared to this.”

 

“I’d still like to see it though,” you tell him. 

 

He swallows and turns his head towards yours. He starts a little when he sees how close you are. You look at each other. Mycroft stares at you calculatingly with his brow slightly furrowed, whilst you look at him with a pleading sort of determination about your face. “All right,” he huffs out, “I’ll have to check tonight, but I'm sure it’ll be fine.”

 

You beam. 

 

*

 

When you first lead Mycroft into the dining room for dinner you can feel the awe radiating off him as he takes in the long, wooden dining table and its candelabra centre piece, the paintings on the walls, the dark fireplace and the ornately decorated ceiling. 

 

“Father, this is Mycroft Holmes. He’s a friend from school,” you say, tugging Mycroft a little forwards by the sleeve so that he’s no longer standing close to the entranceway, but level with you.

 

“Ah, yes. Your mother said that we had a visitor F/N, though I would have much preferred it if you’d brought him along and introduced me to him earlier”-

 

“Sorry Father,” you say automatically. 

 

“Never mind,” Father says with a bow of his head, “It’s good to get to meet you at last Mycroft,” he adds, as if he’s been deprived of Mycroft’s company for far too long. You frown a little. “Tell me, how did you meet F/N?”

 

You look back at Mycroft to see that he’s looking rather intimidated. You turn back to your father, “I told you Father, we met at school”-

 

Father waves a hand, “Let the boy speak F/N.”

 

You look back at your friend to see that he’s still got the same expression on his face as he had before. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. 

 

“Sit down F/N, and get your new friend to sit down too,” Mother orders, “It’s not decent to still be standing when the servants bring in the dinner.”

 

You swallow and pull Mycroft forwards. You both take your places alongside each other. You sit on the left side of Father, who’s at the head of the table with Mother on his right, and Mycroft sits by you. 

 

Dinner-a squash and goat’s cheese bruschetta followed by roast quail with salad-is brought in a moment later, and for a moment you’re all busy eating. 

 

It’s not long though, before Father’s attempts at interrogation begin again. “In some of the same classes as my daughter are you?”

 

Your stomach squirms and Mycroft and you exchange an uneasy look. You’re not sure if you want your parents to know that overall Mycroft’s doing better in school than you, and you can sense your friend-being too much of a gentleman-is keen not to do anything that might embarrass you. 

 

“In some, yes,” Mycroft says, attempting to both answer and dodge the question the best he can, before he tucks into another mouthful of the bruschetta. 

 

You swallow. You can tell from the look of guarded intensity that’s on Father’s face that there’s no getting out of this. You take a deep breath and clear your throat a little. Father’s attention goes to you. “Actually, Mycroft’s in all of the higher sets Father.”

 

Your father leans back, chewing consideringly. There’s a smidgen of goat’s cheese on the corner of his lip. “Is he indeed?” You swallow, whilst Mycroft shifts uncomfortably beside you. You know what’s coming, and sure enough, “How is it F/N that despite your background and this boy’s lack of wealth he’s managing to do better than you?”

 

Your hands tighten around your cutlery and you fix your gaze down onto the table. “I don’t know Father.”

 

 _“No,”_ Father huffs, “I don’t know either.” His gaze turns back to Mycroft, “I expect you've been studying hard for the exams that are coming up?”

 

There’s a slight hesitation, before Mycroft reveals, “I have been studying quite hard, yes. Though I'm sure that F/N”-

 

“There we go then,” Father harrumphs, “It’s your own laziness that’s holding you back.” You bite at your lip. Father’s gaze goes to Mycroft’s again, “You want to better yourself?” he asks.

 

“Yes Sir,” Mycroft nods. 

 

“Good, _good,”_ your father looks contemplatively at him, his hand stroking his own chin briefly, before he leans forwards and goes back to dinner. 

 

You’re rather relieved when it’s all over and Mycroft's gone home.

 

*

 

Mycroft’s been fidgeting and running his hands back through his hair for much of the entire time he’s been leading you back to his house. 

 

Once you finally get to it he raises his hand to insert the key into the lock, but before he gets so far as turning it he looks at you and says, “You mustn't judge”-

 

“Myc I’ve already decided that I like you, I don’t care how messy your house is,” you tell him. 

 

He smiles a little. “Very well,” he says, turning his head back and twisting the key. 

 

The both of you step inside. Mycroft puts his key down on the sideboard that’s off to the right, whilst you peer around at the slightly faded green wallpaper and the stairs that go up to the left. 

 

There’s a door off to the right, whilst you can see a slither of the kitchen through an entrance way to the back, and it’s through this entrance way that a woman you feel sure must be Mycroft’s mother walks towards you just a moment later. She carries a red dishcloth in her hand. 

 

“Hello dears,” she says, kissing Mycroft on the cheek-something which he immediately looks embarrassed by. “Did you both have a good day at school?” 

 

“Yes thank you Mummy,” Mycroft says, speaking for the both of you, before he adds, “This is F/N L/N.”

 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” you say quickly, offering her your hand just like you’d seen Mycroft do with your own mother yesterday. 

 

“The same can be said to you dear,” Mycroft’s mother says, shaking your hand, “Is your brother not with you?” she asks when she turns back to look at Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft gives her a bit of a pain-filled grimace, “I believe he was staying after school to try and blow up the chemistry lab again.”

 

You have to smile at that as you recall how Sherlock once very nearly _had_ blown up the chemistry lab, with the police and fire brigade even being called out when a trace of gas had been detected. 

 

“That boy,” Mycroft’s mother says, shaking her head, “Well, in any case he’ll probably be back for dinner. I'm doing it in half-an-hour, it’s nothing fancy I'm afraid dear,” she says, patting at your hand, “Just good old-fashioned beans on toast for us.”

 

“Mummy can’t we have anything more”- Mycroft begins in a bit of a hiss, leaning forwards. 

 

“That’s fine,” you say, cutting him off. For quite honestly beans on toast sounds like heaven compared to the usual things you eat with names that you can’t even pronounce. 

 

“Why don’t I make us all a nice cup of tea and you can tell me about yourself, whilst we wait for Sherlock to come home?” Mycroft’s mother suggests, looking at you with interest. 

 

You’re about to open your mouth and go along with the idea when Mycroft taps your wrist with his hand to stop you, “I was going to show F/N my room”- he says.

 

“You can do that later”-

 

“I want to do it now. Besides you can talk to F/N at dinner,” Mycroft tells her. Then, when his mother just gives him a bit of a frown along with a curious look, he looks around to see where your hand is, before he clutches at it. “Come,” he says, dragging you upstairs. You follow him feeling a bit bewildered. “Sorry about that,” he says, letting go of your hand as soon as he’s led you through the door to his bedroom. “It’s just that when Mummy starts questioning someone she finds it hard to stop, and she always takes a keen interest in anyone Sherlock and I mention from school. So bringing someone home is, well, anyway”- Mycroft breaks off, finally catching sight of the fact that you’re not paying him much attention because you’re too busy looking around his room. 

 

It’s more of a box room really. A single bed’s in the back in the right corner, the bottom of it just resting beneath the window, which is framed by short blue curtains. A wardrobe, chest of drawers and a petite bookshelf lay to the left. Whilst a desk with a small lamp lies closer to you on the right. A map of the world is pinned to the wall above the desk. All in all it’s quite ordinary, but the fact that it’s such a normal size and it feels so homely makes you fall utterly in love with it. There’s no lavish furniture here. Nor is there any risk you know of any fancy gadgets suddenly appearing like there is in your house. It’s just normal. 

 

“Like I said, it’s quite small,” Mycroft begins a little hesitantly, clearly thinking that you’re not impressed. 

 

“It’s wonderful,” you say. 

 

He looks at you with surprise in his eyes, but then when he can see that you’re being genuine he smiles. 

 

You grin back at him. 

 

*

 

“What’s it like being posh?” is the first thing that Sherlock asks you when Mycroft and you slip in around the small dining table for dinner. 

 

 _“Sherlock”-_ Mycroft scolds, but you shake your head as you sit down. 

 

“It’s all right,” you tell Mycroft, for you’d expected some such conversation tonight, especially after the way that Sherlock had reacted to you before. You look back at him and say, “It’s not as great as you’d think actually.” Then, in an attempt to get the focus away from you, you ask Mycroft, “Won’t your father be joining us?”

 

You realize that you've said something wrong as soon as you say it. Mycroft’s hands freeze upon his cutlery and momentarily tighten, whilst he seems to have a sudden difficulty swallowing his mouthful of beans. Something tightens around Sherlock’s mouth and he becomes suddenly interested in the table. 

 

It’s Mycroft’s mother who says, “Didn't you tell F/N that your father no longer lives here Mycroft?”

 

Mycroft swallows, “No, I didn't Mummy.”

 

“Oh, I'm sorry,” you blurt out, “I didn't”-

 

“It’s fine dear,” Mycroft’s mother says, patting at your hand, “He’s not dead, and the boys still have his name. We’re just not together any more, that’s all”-Mycroft and Sherlock exchange a prominent glance, which escapes you because you’re too busy looking at their mother-“Whilst you’re here why don’t you call me Violet dear?”

 

You nod awkwardly, and things carry on silently for a moment with nothing to be heard but the odd clink of cutlery. 

 

“It can’t be as bad as you’re making out,” Sherlock says suddenly, as if there’d been no interruption in the original conversation he’d started with you, and everyone seems to let out a breath, “You probably don’t even have to go to school if you don’t want to,” he says, poking at his toast with his fork. 

 

“Of course F/N has to go to school, it’s the law,” Mycroft huffs, before he asks, “Just how stupid are you?” 

 

Sherlock opens his mouth to retaliate but Violet gets there first with the words, “Don’t call your brother that.” Then she looks at you and in an attempt to distract both of her boys she asks, “Do you have any brothers or sisters F/N?” 

 

“Just an older sister, she’s in her final-year of college at the moment,” you say, pulling a bit of a forced smile. 

 

Mycroft looks at you with intrigue. You haven’t told him that before. 

 

“You must miss her,” Violet comments. 

 

You hesitate for a moment. You don’t want to sound cold-hearted or uncaring, but the truth is that you and your sister have never been close. “No, not really,” you settle on. 

 

Sherlock, in particular, seems to find that very funny and he snorts a little into his beans, which makes Mycroft send him a disapproving look. 

 

Violet however takes a different opinion. “I find that a shame dear,” she says. 

 

You swallow. “It’s all right,” you shrug, “We've just never been that close that’s all. I don’t know if it’s because of the age-gap or what”- Mycroft swallows, thinking about him and Sherlock-“But we’re both quite happy.”

 

Violet looks at you for a moment, no doubt trying to work out whether you really _are_ happy. Then she clears her throat and nods, before she goes back to her dinner. 

 

*

 

“Are you still glad that you came after all of my brother and Mummy’s questions at dinner?” Mycroft asks when you’re both sitting on the rather lumpy settee watching some rubbish on the small TV that’s in front of you both. 

 

You nod, “Why didn't you tell me about your father?” you blurt out. Your mind has been on the issue a lot ever since it was mentioned, and you can’t help but wonder how different your life would have been had your own parents separated. Even just thinking about it a little though you know it would have been significant, and you can’t imagine that you would have kept it from a friend. 

 

Mycroft shifts a little. “For the same reason, I expect, why you never told me that you have a sister. It’s complicated.”

 

“My sister’s a grade-A bitch, there’s nothing complicated about that,” you tell him with a fierce sort of bitterness, thinking that you’d just rather not waste any breath or time talking about her. You suddenly wonder if that’s the reason why Mycroft has never told you about his father. 

 

He disrupts your thought in the next moment when he looks at you, huffs out a breath, runs his hands down towards his knees and announces, “My father had an affair. It’s not something that we talk about in this house.” You swallow and look at him. A moment later he looks at you, before he looks away from you. “Sherlock found out about it a couple of years ago and decided to announce it all at dinner”-

 

“Mycroft _I'm”-_ you begin, grabbing loosely at his wrist, as you feel suddenly guilty. 

 

He pulls away and clears his throat, “Mummy and Father had a huge argument about it. Sherlock and I were sent upstairs, but we could hear every word…” he trails off, and you can sense his mind re-living that day, “Father said that he didn't want to live with us any more, he called us freaks, said we were strange”-you swallow, you can imagine how that must have both hurt and dented Mycroft and Sherlock’s image of themselves-“Mummy defended us and told him to leave if that was what he wanted, so he did. I thought she might be angry with Sherlock, but she wasn't. She said that Father only had himself to blame and that Sherlock was quite right to bring the matter up. Then she said that we would be better off without him,” he looks back at you, “So that’s why I never said anything.”

 

You stare at him, not knowing what to say. “I'm really, _really_ sorry that you had to go through that,” you finally settle on. 

 

Mycroft nods, turns away and kicks at the air with his foot; “It won’t upset me if you don’t want to come around again”-

 

“I _do_ want to come around again”-

 

“I'm amazed that you wanted to in the first place. This place is like a garage compared to the palace where you live,” Mycroft goes on as if you’d never spoken. 

 

You huff out a breath as your own problems come back to you and edge forwards, running a hand through your hair, before you rest your elbows on your knees. You push your face into your hands. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, raising his eyebrows and no doubt feeling surprised by your behaviour. 

 

You sigh a little, before you lift your head up and tell him, “I know this probably won’t make sense to you, but all my life I’ve lived where I do now, I didn't choose it, and all my life I’ve had certain expectations placed on me by my family of-of carrying on and going into the same line of work as my parents. My sister got away with not doing it, and somehow she’s still Mother’s little darling, hence the grade-A bitch thing, but they’ll never let me not do it too”-

 

“Your family works for the government don’t they?” Mycroft asks, wondering what can be so wrong with going into that sort of work.

 

You hesitate a moment, running another hand back through your hair. “Yes,” you finally relent quietly, because even if you had the energy to explain what your parents really do, you’re not supposed to tell anyone about it. You swallow. “Anyway, the point is that all my life I’ve had these expectations placed on me by other people and all these assumptions made about me by the people in school. No one’s ever once realized that there’s more to me than that, or gotten to know me, the _real_ me. No one’s ever once realized that all this time I’ve been feeling so…so”-

 

 _“Trapped?”_ Mycroft volunteers when you look back at him. 

 

A little breath leaves your mouth and you lean back so that you can look at him more comfortably. “Yeah. How did you know?” you ask. 

 

He gives you a bit of a rueful smile, before he looks at the TV as he says both a little bitterly and sardonically, “I'm a slightly overweight boy with auburn hair whose always lived in a house that’s too small and who people always look at with surprise whenever I say something that they thought was too clever for me to come out with. How could I not know?”

 

You look at him for a moment, feeling stunned as you take in those blue eyes, which hold something resigned inside of them, that your lives can be so different, but that you've ultimately come to form the same feelings inside of you. “I'm sorry,” you say. 

 

Mycroft just nods and the both of you go back to watching TV. 

 

*

 

Mycroft and you have a silent understanding after that, and though you don’t talk about the similarity of your situations again, the two of you quickly grow inseparable outside school and during lunch. Something not even the wankers can spoil. For though they try and mock you both, making crude comments about what you might be doing when you go around to each other’s houses, being mocked with someone else isn't as bad as being mocked on your own. For one thing it’s a lot more fun to come up with methods of torture that you could subject the wankers to with Mycroft than its ever been on your own. It’s also a lot easier to shrug off the mocking too. At last you've got a friend and someone worthwhile to spend your time with.


	3. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finds out the truth about what your parents really do for a living.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for your support! :)
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. :)

To say that Sherlock’s excited when he’s finally allowed to visit your house on a Saturday two weeks later is an understatement. 

 

You’d been at Mycroft’s that morning and Sherlock had been needling the pair of you as to when he might be able to go over to yours. You’d been fine about it, but Mycroft had been his usual reluctant self. You hadn’t known that it had been more than just anxiety about Sherlock embarrassing him, but rather a desire to keep his friendship and access to your house all to himself that had made him be so. He’d only relented when Sherlock had loudly suggested that he’s begun to think there’s a secret between Mycroft and you that you don’t want him knowing. So, as Mycroft’s ears had turned red-a sure sign of both his growing embarrassment and frustration-it had been decided that the boys would accompany you home that afternoon and stay on for dinner. 

 

Now Sherlock bounds in front of you both, looking back on occasion to make sure that he’s going the right way, whilst Mycroft and you hang back a little like nervous parents who've just decided to let their toddler walk free without a restraint for the first time. 

 

“I'm not sure if this is a good idea,” Mycroft says, casting you an apprehensive glance. 

 

“It’ll be fine,” you reassure him, despite the fact that you’re feeling a bit tentative because of just how excited Sherlock is yourself. 

 

The walk continues. 

 

When the three of you enter the mansion, or rather, when Mycroft and you enter the mansion normally, Sherlock basically jumps inside it, looking around and stepping forwards like a rabbit standing on its hind legs, almost teetering where he stands.

 

“Take your shoes off,” Mycroft commands, before Sherlock can sully the chequered floor with his dark trainers any further. 

 

You cringe a little, though you don’t say anything. It’s much easier just to go along with the fake rule of shoes having to be taken off, especially when you get the feeling that Mycroft would be both hurt and perhaps a little angry if you implied that there was one rule for him and another for his brother. 

 

Sherlock slides back to the door, casts his brother a dark look and slips his shoes off with a prominent pout. “There happy now?” he asks, before Mycroft shushes him hurriedly as the sound of approaching footsteps makes itself known. 

 

The three of you look as your mother comes from the direction of the kitchen, “Ah F/N,” she says, before she looks at Mycroft and adds politely, “So nice to see you again Mycroft.”

 

“You too Mrs. L/N,” Mycroft says, standing to attention. Then, as your mother’s eyes drift appraisingly to Sherlock, who chooses to eye her intently rather than introduce himself, Mycroft, more flustered, says, “I-this is my brother Sherlock, I-I hope you don’t mind him being here. F/N said that it would be all right.”

 

You look at Mycroft and roll your eyes. Your mother looks to you enquiringly. “They’ll be staying for dinner,” you inform her promptly. 

 

It’s your mother’s turn to roll her eyes, “Sometimes I wonder just who’s in charge of this house,” she says with a sweeping move of her hand. Mycroft lets out an awkward chuckle. You roll your eyes. Again. “But yes, that will be fine dear, I’ll go and tell Hettie.” 

 

She leaves you all shortly after and you begin to lead the boys to your room. The journey’s a fairly quick one, though you have to stop periodically so that Sherlock can admire a painting, or on one occasion, so that he can announce loudly that the painting’s a fake. 

 

“No, I'm pretty sure it’s real,” you tell him, before you hurriedly move on. You don’t think it would be suitable if Sherlock found out that, that painting hides an electronic security device-there’s one on every floor just in case the mansion needs to be put under lock-down-and that yes, it is a fake. His head might explode. 

 

As soon as you push your bedroom door open-after practically pulling the chuckling boys away from the painting of you, which Mycroft had been irritatingly keen to point out to his brother-Sherlock takes one look at your bed and makes a running leap for it. 

 

“Sherlock, _no!”_ Mycroft exclaims, completely horrified as his brother lands with a neat dive onto your bed. The eldest Holmes turns to you, wringing his hands, “F/N,” he says breathlessly, “I'm so, so sorry”-

 

“It’s okay,” you say, laughing a little, before you grab onto Mycroft’s hand and lead him across to the bed. He allows you to do so, though he still looks in utter shock about what his brother’s just done. 

 

You let go of him once you’re by the bed and clamber on it yourself. You stand up and Sherlock pushes himself into a sitting position and grins up at you. You smile back at him and watch as Sherlock gets up into a wobbly standing position himself. Then, together, you begin to jump on the bed. Mycroft doesn’t know where to look. Judging by his face he might just have walked in on his brother and you having sex. 

 

“Come on,” you laugh, sounding breathless as you slow down your jumping. 

 

Mycroft gives you an incredulous look as if to ask, _‘Are you really talking to me?’_ before he looks away again. 

 

Another laugh escapes your lips. You jump off the bed, which makes Mycroft look alarmed until he realizes that you've done such a thing without hurting yourself. “Come on,” you say, grabbing at his hands and leading him closer to the bed. Still, he looks reluctant. “Have some fun,” you urge, “You’re like an old man sometimes.” Mycroft looks at you with a frown, he wouldn't have cared so much if one of the wankers at school had just told him that, but the fact that _you_ have-

 

“That’s done it,” Sherlock whoops, still jumping gleefully on the bed. 

 

Mycroft makes a sound of irritation in his throat and lets go of your hands. You watch with a thrill as he clambers onto the bed. He stands in a wobbly fashion, scowling a little as Sherlock tries to make him fall all the while. He manages to stay upright until Sherlock deliberately bounces into a sitting position, sending Mycroft tumbling forwards on his hands and knees as he loses his balance. Sherlock seems to find the whole thing gloriously funny. You wince sympathetically and move forwards, climbing onto the bed yourself. 

 

“Here,” you murmur, helping push Mycroft up onto his knees. He lets out a breath of thanks and you find yourself momentarily smiling at the curl, which hangs loosely down across his forehead. “Now give me your hands,” you say, holding your own out to him in an upright fashion as if you’re about to play a childhood game. Mycroft sends a half-look to his brother, before he places his hands against yours. You lock your fingers in the gaps between his, frowning a little in concentration. Your eyes flick up to his. “Now, slowly we stand.” Mycroft swallows and nods. Sherlock watches in fascination as the pair of you get up in a shaky, but successful fashion, supporting each other all the while and only letting go of each other’s hands once you’re up properly. Sherlock misses the triumphant, breathless smile that Mycroft and you share between you as he gets up himself, before he begins to bounce in his usual uncaring fashion. 

 

Mycroft and you take things more slowly. But it makes you feel happy when you see the promise of a smile forming on Mycroft’s face as he becomes more relaxed. 

 

*

 

Once summer comes Mycroft and you spend a lot of time at each other’s houses, with Sherlock occasionally joining you in whatever activities you decide to do. 

 

After one particular visit from Mycroft your father calls you into the study. You’re a little surprised to see your mother there too and you figure that whatever it is must be important. 

 

Your father looks at you studiously for a moment. You shift your position. “Your mother and I have been very impressed by the new friend you've made F/N.”

 

You open your mouth, blink. You’re not quite sure what to say, “Oh, I”-

 

“Very impressed indeed with his intelligence,” your father goes on, and you might as well have not just spoken. He adjusts the dark blue paperweight that’s on his dark wooden desk. “In fact,” he goes on, looking up at you, “We've been so impressed that we’re considering making him aware of the reality of our situation and seeing if we can interest him in a position once his schooling’s done.” Father clears his throat and your stomach lurches. “It’s not every day that you come across a fine young specimen like him, especially from that part of society”- you bite down hard on your lip. You want to say that it’s not as if Father has ever taken the time to look in the lower classes, but you restrain yourself. Your father blinks lazily-“What would you say to that?” he asks. 

 

You stay silent for the longest of times, perfectly still as you think it through. Your instinct is to keep Mycroft far away from the madness that you know can sometimes embrace this house, but your gut tells you that Mycroft would probably appreciate the opportunity, not to mention the chance to end up doing something better with his life. 

 

“After all,” your father adds slyly, “You've made it quite clear that you don’t wish to carry on as much with the family business as we’d hoped.”

 

You open your mouth, feeling like that’s quite unfair. “I’ve said I’d do an”-

 

“An administrative position in the library where you will also be offering general information and overseeing the forms of new recruits is hardly running around and getting shot at now is it? Or for that matter collecting and analysing intelligence, which is something that we hope your friend might help us with in the future.” You clench your fists. Your mother stays silent in the background, but you can tell that she agrees with Father. “Why,” your father quirks an eyebrow, “We could almost look at it as if you've brought this young man deliberately into our path to make up for your erroneous ways.” You scowl and your fingers tighten. You’d done no such thing. You’d just wanted Mycroft as a friend. 

 

Indeed you’re so angry that for a moment you don’t speak. “It sounds like you've already given the matter a great deal of thought Father. I'm sure you know best,” is what you finally end up saying, before Father dismisses you with a curt nod of his head. 

 

You spend the rest of the night fuming. You’re tempted to call Mycroft and tell him that no, he can’t come around tomorrow and that, quite frankly, it might be best if he doesn’t come around for a while. You can go to his instead or you can meet up somewhere in town. You don’t say that of course. If you did then you’d have to explain it and you have no idea about what you’d say. You’d probably just end up worrying Mycroft pointlessly. 

 

So, when Mycroft arrives that following morning, to say you’re bracing yourself over what might occur is an understatement. You don’t expect it to happen so soon though. Mycroft’s barely stepped through the door when Father walks with a swagger down the stairs as if he’s a strutting peacock. Mycroft’s mouth hangs agog as he stares, whilst attempting to slip his shoes off at the same time. You jostle him with your elbow to get him to close it. He half-looks at you, lets out a spluttering sound and then shuts it. 

 

“Ah Mycroft, so glad you’re here,” Father says, coming across to you both and winking at you slyly. You frown, feeling tense all over again. Mycroft looks surprised and glances at you for guidance, but, still cross, you don’t look at him. He turns his gaze back to your father who smiles indulgently at him. “Perhaps, whilst I’ve got the opportunity, you could come with me? I would like to have a little chat with you.” Again Mycroft looks to you. Father laughs. “Come now Mycroft, I don’t bite.” Your scowl grows and your eyes darken as Father places a cloying hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft laughs nervously and nods, before he allows himself to be escorted away by your father. You watch them go with a sinking heart, and even when Mycroft looks around as if to ask, _‘Aren't you coming with us?’_ the most you can offer him is a grimace. “Now, now Mycroft, this is man’s talk,” Father says. Mycroft turns his head away, but you can see that he grows tenser at your father’s words. 

 

You drag your feet to your room. There you walk aimlessly around, whilst you worry about what’s going on downstairs. It’s true that Mycroft could like the idea, but what if Father’s pushing him right now into something that he doesn’t want to do? What if he’s using you as a disappointing example? Will Mycroft think any less of you? Or even worse will he become suspicious that you’re using him like a pawn, just as your father had suggested last night? You sigh and sit down on your bed, your hands fidgety. 

 

By the time Mycroft walks in you’re lying flat on your stomach, your head sunk on top of the duvet. 

 

“Why didn't you tell me?” he says, barging in breathlessly. You lift your head up, bite at your lip. Your stomach tightens. Are you about to lose the only friend you've ever known? “What your parents do,” Mycroft goes on, “It’s-well-it’s astonishing and all this time, every time I’ve come here, I could never have guessed that something so fantastical was going on.”

 

 _Ah._ He’s into it then, which is good you suppose. At least you won’t be losing him as a friend this way and at least _someone_ might be able to please your father at last, but still you’re worried about how it might change your relationship. Your father can be very cruel and cold when he wants to be, and you have no desire for him to manipulate Mycroft. You push yourself up into a sitting position with your legs bent off to the side of you. Mycroft approaches you, and finally he seems to realize that you’re not as enthusiastic. His face falls. “Sorry, but even if I’d wanted to tell you I wouldn't have been allowed. Also, I guess I’ve just never really…” you trail off, searching for the right word, “Been that into it,” you shrug. 

 

 _“Why?”_ Mycroft says as he sits down on the bed beside you, like he can’t imagine why anyone would possibly reject this new world that he’s been introduced to. You don’t blame him. Who in their right mind wouldn't be excited when they've just met the Head of MI6 and been told that one day, if they’re lucky, they could be part of this magnificent British organization too? It must be every little boy’s dream! Tears prick your eyes and you look away. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft asks, his fingers inching towards yours, though they don’t quite make to grasp your hand. 

 

You look back to him, swallow, pull your hand away and rest it on top of your thigh instead. “Sorry,” you murmur. 

 

“It’s okay,” Mycroft says quietly, “But can you at least tell me why you wouldn't have told me even if you could have?” 

 

You swallow again and draw your knees up to your chest. Mycroft withdraws his hand and studies you. “People get hurt Mycroft…” you trail off and turn your head to look at him more desperately. “People get hurt and I don't want you to be one of them.” Mycroft swallows and opens his mouth. He’s trying to understand, but you can tell that he doesn’t, not really. He thinks you're over-reacting, and why shouldn't he when the biggest enemy he’s faced are the wankers at school? You swallow.

 

“Why-Why don’t _you_ want to be part of it though? Even if you got hurt, surely, surely in the end doing something like that would be worth it?”-

 

“I just want to make my own choice of who I am and what I want to do. Not just be the girl who went into the family business because it was convenient,” you interrupt him, your voice strained. “And the main reason Father’s asked you, no offence, is not because of your intelligence or how capable you are, but because he wants to get back at me for not being the daughter he wants me to be.”

 

Mycroft swallows. “I'm sorry F/N,” he says, and if he was a dog then his ears would be drooping, “I didn't mean to come in here and make you feel bad, or to make things awkward between your family and you.”

 

You run a hand back through your hair, grateful for his words, but, “No, no it’s not _your_ fault, and I guess, if it’s something that interests you then I'm glad that its been mentioned.” You pause. “Just ignore me, just because I feel that way doesn’t mean… _well,”_ you add softly, “You have to make your own mind up.” 

 

Mycroft smiles a little. “I don’t know much about it to do that yet. Your father showed me some of the old gadgets that have been used, and they were pretty amazing, but…” he trails off with a shrug. You smile a little. You can tell that this is something that’s really gripped hold of him, despite the fact that he’s trying to be modest and cautious after your words. “Your father said you’d agreed to an administrative position once you leave school?” he asks. You nod, feeling surprised but pleased that his mind is still on you. “So, I think it’s fair to say that sometime in the future we might be working alongside each other?” You smile a little more at that. “That’s something then isn't it?” Mycroft pushes. 

 

You look down at the bed and fiddle with the material of the duvet for a moment. Then you look back up and nod. That _is_ something. At least even if you’re miserable in the future, doing a job you hate, you’ll have a good friend there. You’ll also be able to keep an eye on Mycroft too and limit the hurt he’ll be subjected to, _hopefully_... 

 

*

 

You’re lying on your bed with Mycroft one Saturday afternoon in the middle of September when suddenly Mycroft asks, “If you didn't have to join the family business, what is it that you’d like to do when you leave school?”

 

You swallow and gaze at the ceiling. Mycroft rolls onto his side and props his head up with his hand. You take a moment just to think about what to say. Mycroft’s been periodically spending more time with your father when he comes over, and you’re a little anxious about the possibility that Father might ask Mycroft prying questions about you. Even if Mycroft didn't want to say anything the Head of MI6 can be very persuasive. You find yourself swallowing and inwardly chiding yourself for such a thought a moment later though. Mycroft’s practically your best friend. You need to trust him and stop being so suspicious. He’s the only one you can open up with, and even if he did end up telling Father about what you really want to do it’s not like Father would be completely shocked anyway. After all he knows that you’re not interested in MI6. You let out a breath and rub at the f/c material of the top that’s covering your stomach. “Definitely something creative, something where you don’t necessarily have to be as logical or methodical,” you muse, growing bold enough to be honest. 

 

“A writer?” Mycroft suggests. 

 

“Mmm, maybe,” you say, before you eye the sketchbook that’s on your bedside cabinet thoughtfully, “But”-Mycroft looks at you-“I was thinking actually more of an artist.”

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft murmurs, before his eyes too go to the sketchbook. “Would it be possible for me to see some of your drawings?”

 

You swallow and make a sound that tells him it would, before you sit up. You slide off the bed and go and fetch your sketchbook. Then you have a better idea. “Actually,” you say, “I’ll draw you. That way you can tell me what you think.”

 

“Right now?” Mycroft enquires, sitting up himself and looking a little uncertain by the sudden activity. 

 

You nod, going to stand at the bottom of the bed. “Go up by the headboard,” you direct him. 

 

He scrambles back until he’s sitting there with his ankles crossed and staring at you, “Is that?”-

 

“Hmm,” you murmur, eyeing him consideringly. You take in his maroon socks, jeans, blue and red checked shirt and brown V-neck jumper. Satisfied, you nod. Then you grab your required tools, sit at the bottom of the bed and open your sketchbook on top of your crossed legs. 

 

For a few minutes you attempt to capture him in silence, but something, you feel, as you rub out a line, just isn't right. You can’t concentrate, not properly, and that sensation only grows as you get the feeling that Mycroft’s trying not to fidget. You sigh and look up at him. “Would it be all right if I put some music on?” you ask, “I think it might be better if I have something to listen to.”

 

Mycroft has no objection so you slide off the bed again, before you go across to your CD player. You flick through your CD collection for a moment, but in the end, as cheesy as it might be to Mycroft, you opt for the soundtrack to _'Aladdin.'_ You've always found that a bit of Disney helps soothe you. 

 

As the first track- _‘Arabian Nights’_ -begins to filter through the room you go back to the bed and Mycroft, who’s, much to your relief, smiling in what seems like recognition of the tune.

 

“Do you know it?” you ask. 

 

“Oh yes,” he nods, “Mummy used to put _'Aladdin'_ on for Sherlock and I all the time when we were younger. Sherlock even went through a phase where he wanted a pet monkey. He used to wail and howl when there was never one in any of the pet shops.”

 

You smile at the thought of Sherlock dragging his brother and mother around all of the pet shops, and at the idea of the older members of the Holmes family knowing that there would never be any monkeys in any of them, but letting Sherlock lead the way anyway. 

 

Things become lighter. You hum along quite happily, whilst you try to capture Mycroft. It’s only when _'A Whole New World'_ comes on that things become a little awkward. Its always been your favourite song on the CD and you've never been able to resist singing along to it. It’s only when you glance up at Mycroft again and see how his expression has changed that you break off. “Sorry,” you say, running a hand back through your hair. 

 

“It’s okay,” Mycroft swallows, his back pressed right up against the headboard, “Don’t let me stop you.”

 

You share a bit of an awkward smile.

 

Then, slowly, as you go back to drawing again, you continue to sing, _“ ‘A whole new world. A new fantastic point of view. No one to tell us no or where to go. Or say we’re only dreaming.’”_

 

Mycroft swallows as he listens to your soft, slightly wavery voice rising up alongside the music. It sounds almost ethereal and it sends a little shiver through him. But it makes something else begin to churn inside him, and that something else makes him want to do something he’s never done before. It makes him want to sing along too. Slowly, tentatively, he does so, coming in where Princess Jasmine would, _“ ‘A whole new world. A dazzling place I never knew. But when I'm way up here, it’s crystal clear. That now I'm in a whole new world with you’”-_ Your head jerks up in surprise. He breaks off, clearing his throat. “Sorry,” he murmurs, suddenly worried that he might have surprised you so much that it might have caused you to ruin your drawing. 

 

“No, it’s fine,” you say, shaking your head to try and rid it of the memory of Mycroft’s surprisingly beautiful singing voice and the way that it had made all the hairs on the back of your neck prickle and stand on end. You swallow again and go back to singing, your eyes not going back to your sketchbook this time, but fixing on his instead, _“ ‘Don’t you dare close your eyes.’”_

 

Mycroft falters, before he joins in, _“ ‘A hundred thousand things to see.’”_

 

_“ ‘Hold your breath, it gets better.’”_

 

 _“ ‘I'm like a shooting star. I’ve come so far. I can’t go back to where I used to be,’”_ Mycroft sings and you feel a pleasant squirming sensation fill your stomach. 

 

You wriggle about a bit, before you settle back down again as you sing, _“ ‘A whole new world.’”_

 

 _“ ‘Every turn a surprise,’”_ Mycroft chimes in, and there’s something sparkling in his eyes. 

 

_“ ‘With new horizons to pursue.’”_

 

 _“ ‘Every moment red letter,’”_ Mycroft adds, before you finally both sing together,  
_“‘I’ll chase them anywhere. There’s time to spare. Let me share this whole new world with you,’”_ and you feel like you could be flying on a magic carpet yourself as your voices blend beautifully together. 

 

 _“ ‘A whole new world,’”_ you sing, your eyes still locked with his. 

 

 _“ ‘A whole new world,’”_ Mycroft sighs more than sings. 

 

 _“ ‘That’s where we’ll be,’”_ you add.

 

 _“ ‘That’s where we’ll be,’”_ Mycroft echoes. 

 

_“ ‘A thrilling chase.’”_

 

_“ ‘A wondrous place.’”_

 

 _“ ‘For you and me,’”_ you finish together, and you keep your eyes on each other for a beat longer as the next song- _'Jafar’s Hour'_ -kicks in, before you duck your head and giggle a little. “I can’t believe we just did that,” you say, scraping your pencil absent-mindedly down a line that you've already made. You swallow and look back up at Mycroft. He’s watching you with a peculiar, almost dazed expression that you've never seen on his face. But upon your eyes going to his he jerks forwards a little and clears his throat. You share an embarrassed grin with each other. “You've got a good voice,” you comment softly. He looks embarrassed. “So, what about you then?” you go on, “Do you still want to join my father’s organization or might you now be considering a career in the West End?”

 

Mycroft blushes at your teasing, before he crawls forwards and nods at your sketchbook, “Can I see?” he asks. 

 

“Mmmhmm, it’s not done yet, but I’ve done the basic shape of you”-

 

Mycroft moves around to sit beside you and he lets out a little gasp when he sees the marks you've made. You look at him anxiously. “F/N, that’s-that’s amazing”- he exclaims, his finger brushing at the paper as he continues to observe it. 

 

“Oh,” you wriggle, “You don’t even have eyes yet”-

 

“But even so, to think that you did that just now ”- he breaks off, flushing again. 

 

You grin, and once more you both share an embarrassed look with one another, “So,” you press, “Are you going to become a singer?”

 

Mycroft turns his head and looks away, “I think I’ll just focus on the job your father offered right now. It would be challenging,” he murmurs, thinking over a fake case that your father had made for him where he had, had to analyse fake intelligence and then orally announce, what, in his opinion, the services involved next steps should be. “But it definitely has the possibility of being rewarding”-

 

“Someone’s already spending their wages,” you joke. 

 

Mycroft blushes, “I don’t mean the money. I mean the fact that you get to help organize and do something that is”- he breaks off, blushes some more-“Genuinely very important and potentially life changing. To stop a bomb from going off or to predict what a terror organization’s next moves are…you can’t put a price on that.”

 

Fully immersed in his words you look at him intently, “So…is that what attracts you to it? The chance to help with stuff like that and use your brain on something important?” 

 

Mycroft pulls a bit of a face and looks down. “Partly,” he murmurs, before he gets the courage to look up again and confess a little sheepishly, “This is going to sound a little shallow.”

 

You shift closer to him and arch an eyebrow, “I'm listening.”

 

“Well,” Mycroft begins, still clearly apprehensive, “Whenever I see your father, he-he always looks so powerful, and in control, as if the whole world could fall apart around him and he’d still know exactly what to do.” You smile. You don’t tell Mycroft that, that’s more because of your father’s dominant personality rather than because of the job he does, “Not to mention…the _suits_ he wears…”

 

You snort. “Anybody can wear a suit,” you scoff. 

 

“Not anyone,” Mycroft says, his face both somehow serious and crumpled, his eyes shining with anxiety, “I never have, and that’s what people first judge you on a lot of times isn't it? By the clothes you wear?”

 

You feel bad for taking the matter so lightly and for forgetting that something you already have access to-in this case nice clothes-might be someone else’s dream. 

 

Feeling determined to do something nice you hop off the bed and say, “Come on.”

 

“Where are we going?” Mycroft asks, scrambling off the bed. 

 

You don’t answer. Instead you just smile at him, before you lead the way out of your room and down the hallway to where your parents’ room is located. 

 

Mycroft follows you in. But as soon as he realizes where you are he asks, “Are you sure that we should?”-

 

“It’s fine,” you say, before you stride up to your parents’ walk-in wardrobe and begin to examine the clothing. “You’re going to try on one of my father’s suits,” you announce with a flourish, looking over your shoulder. 

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft begins, before he breaks off when you throw a pair of grey trousers at him. 

 

“Honestly, it’ll be fine, no one will even know. My parents are both doing paperwork all day downstairs and no one else is going to come in,” you tell him, turning back to him as you hold up a hanger, which has a white shirt dangling from it. 

 

Mycroft swallows and looks towards the door, before he looks calculatingly at the clothes you’re holding and shifts his fingers across the fine material of the trousers he’s carrying. You know that his resolve is crumbling, and sure enough he nods just a moment later, before he rests the trousers carefully down on the king-size bed that’s behind him. 

 

You smile in a satisfied kind of way. Then you watch a little impatiently as he takes off his shoes. Before he takes anything else off though his head jerks up and he looks up at you again, “You’ll er, you’ll have to turn your back,” he says with his face red.

 

You stare at him with a furrowed brow. He looks up at you from his still crouched position, one of his hands delicately on the fly of his jeans as he scrutinizes you. “Why?” you ask, stepping back a little from him, before you announce, “I’d feel comfortable enough around you not to make you turn your back, whilst I changed”-

 

“Yes, but, I er”- Mycroft mumbles, raising his hand now to swipe his hair back. You watch as the curl on his forehead swings upwards, before it settles back down in its usual place.

 

You shift your position a little uncomfortably, “I don’t care what underwear you’re wearing. Don’t you want to do this quickly, so we can get out of here?”

 

Mycroft looks down and you can see him chewing on his lip a little. “Fine,” he mutters, undoing the zip of his jeans and pulling them down in one smooth motion. He steps out of them, but remains in a rather crouched position, trying to use his shirt and jumper to cover up his underwear, but you still catch a glimpse of his blue boxer shorts and something about seeing them makes you smile.

 

He reaches out a hand and you pass him your father’s grey trousers. He slips them on quickly, before he straightens up in relief. He takes off his jumper without a fuss, but after he’s suitably flattened down his hair he looks at you with a bit of a frown again. “I’d, er, appreciate it if you could turn your back now, or at the very least cover your eyes,” he says, his hands fidgeting with the middle of his shirt. 

 

You let out a bit of an exasperated sigh and mumble something about how everyone’s got a stomach, which makes Mycroft smile briefly, before you do as he wishes and raise a hand to cover your eyes. Your ears pick up on the sound of Mycroft clearing his throat a moment later. “Thank you,” he mumbles. You nod. You detect him undoing the buttons of his shirt a moment later, and, unable to help yourself you shift your fingers ever so slightly and chance a peek. To your annoyance Mycroft must have suspected that you might do such a thing and all you see is the pale, milky, freckled skin of his back, before quite suddenly he turns to you. Alarmed, and knowing that he’ll be looking at you and checking that you aren't peeking, you shift your fingers back as quickly as possible. 

 

Mycroft makes a sound of amusement in his throat, and knowing that you've been caught you swallow. “Keep your fingers where they are now,” he instructs, “I'm just coming to take the shirt from the hanger.”

 

“Okay,” you murmur, and your lips stay parted to let out your soft breaths. 

 

You feel him coming closer to you, and sense him looking at you studiously for one drawn out moment, before you feel his hand against the hanger, rocking it slightly as he removes the shirt. You swallow and let out a little sound at the movement, before everything goes still and you feel him stepping back from you once more. 

 

A moment passes. “You can look now,” Mycroft announces.

 

Slowly, and with your heart beating rather tentatively inside your chest, you lower your hand. 

 

Mycroft looks smarter than you've ever seen him, but you’re keen to know what he’ll look like with the addition of the matching suit jacket. You turn back to the wardrobe with a frown and rummage inside it for a moment. Once you've got it you pass it to him. 

 

“How do I look?” he asks, looking at you imploringly once he’s slipped it on.

 

He looks different. That’s all you know. As if by just putting on the suit its made something change on his inside too, for already, as he stares at you with his eyes shining with both excitement and apprehension he seems to be holding himself slightly differently, more confidently. But instead of trying to explain it you simply say, “Go and look in the mirror,” for you want him to see it for himself. 

 

He stares at you questioningly one moment more and then nods, padding across to the far end of the room where the full-length mirror is located. 

 

A little breath of wonder leaves his lips as he steps in front of it and sees himself in the suit for the first time. As he turns this way and that, smoothing his hair down and extending his long legs, you can’t help but smile at the way that he’s clearly impressed with how he looks despite the suit being a little baggy. 

 

“Maybe we can find you a tie,” you say, getting more into the game, and you can’t resist teasing, “After all you need to look smart if I'm going to draw you for my new book on the clandestine lives of secret agents.”

 

Mycroft snorts and blushes, “Is it your first book?” he enquires, looking back at you. 

 

You wave a dismissive hand, “Of course not Mr. Holmes, where have you been? It’s my third one, and to think that I sent you preview copies of the other two”-

 

“Ah,” Mycroft says in a mysterious voice, “But I’ve been so busy with my life as a secret agent that”- he breaks off suddenly. You can hear laughter coming from the hallway, and it sounds as if it’s coming closer. Mycroft’s eyes widen in alarm. 

 

“Quick,” you hiss, “Get underneath the bed.”

 

“But”-

 

 _“Hurry,”_ you urge him, and as he finally makes to do as he’s told you shove his clothes and shoes underneath the bed, before you just manage to slide below it yourself a second before the bedroom door opens. 

 

Mycroft’s lying on his back, looking very much like a frightened wild animal as he breathes quickly. You shuffle closer towards him as the giggling sound of your mother reaches your ears. Your nose wrinkles at it, for a lot of times when you hear her laugh it’s fake, but this sounds real and very uncontrollable. Your father responds a moment later, not with words but by doing something that makes her gasp. You very nearly let out a horrified exclamation, but Mycroft covers your hand with his to stop you. You swallow rapidly twice. But then there comes more excited sounds from your parents and a creak, before the bed dips down, giving Mycroft and you all the more less space and making you feel all the more uncomfortable. You squeeze your eyes shut and turn your head, pressing your nose awkwardly against Mycroft’s shoulder. He partly turns his head, before he releases his hand from yours and makes to brush at your hair with some difficulty. You swallow, feeling slightly reassured at the gesture. You press your nose even more insistently against Mycroft’s shoulder when there comes even more sounds, this time ones of undressing, followed by more creaking of the bed and gasping. You just want to yell at them to stop. You swear to God that you've never felt so embarrassed in your life. It’s bad enough that you've got to listen to it, but the fact that _both_ Mycroft and you have to…you scrunch your eyes shut even more determinedly. When it’s all over and finally your parents have dressed again and left the room, you just spend a moment lying there out of sheer relief.

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft nudges you. 

 

You swallow and nod, before you carefully slide back out from underneath the bed. Mycroft follows you a moment later, and you pull his clothes and shoes out, before you carry them back to your room. 

 

“Oh my God,” you announce loudly as you walk back inside and dump Mycroft’s clothes onto your bed. “I didn't even realize they had sex any more.” 

 

Mycroft gives you a bit of a sympathetic look, before he quickly starts to change out of your father’s suit. 

 

“I think I'm scarred for life,” you inform him, dropping his shoes onto the floor and sitting with a thump at the bottom of your duvet, “I'm so sorry you had to hear that.” 

 

Mycroft makes a non-committal noise in his throat as he pulls his jeans back on, his anxiety about changing in front of you gone due to his haste to leave. You stare at his legs as they disappear absent-mindedly. “I don’t suppose you still want to stay for dinner after that?” you ask. 

 

He looks at you and pulls a bit of an awkward face as he unbuttons the shirt with deft fingers. “No, I think I’ll just go in a minute actually.”

 

You can’t say you blame him. But you have little idea of the real reason why Mycroft’s in such a hurry to leave.


	4. A Little Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get interesting when you invite Mycroft to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thanks so much for all of your support! :D 
> 
> I really appreciate it, and as usual I hope you enjoy this new chapter! :D

As Mycroft walks home with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans everything comes back to him: the happy way he’d felt listening to you sing, the way that happiness had heightened when he’d joined in and he’d felt like you were both sharing a weird sort of intimacy that he’d never been privileged to before. The teasing way you’d spoken to him in your parents’ bedroom that had made something jolt inside him, eager to see where it might lead. The panic he’d felt upon hearing the laughter, the way his stomach had both tightened and swirled with something different as you’d slid underneath the bed, getting closer and closer to him. The way, when he’d clasped your hand it had felt a lot more personal than any other time he’d ever done it, how soft your hair had felt, the way your floral scent had drifted to him, enticing him, making him want more, making him want to just turn, tilt your head upwards and-

 

Mycroft groans. He’s going mad, that’s it. He takes his hands out of his pockets and flexes his fingers. He’s never felt this way about you before so he must be going mad. It must have just been the combined sight of himself actually looking rather respectable in the suit, followed by the quick onslaught of panic, which had then addled his mind and made him notice things that he’s never appreciated about you before. Yes, that’s got to be all it is-

 

“Oi! Where are you going Fatcroft?” comes Sherlock’s sharp, accusing voice, jolting Mycroft out of his thought. 

 

He stops and whirls around. Sherlock’s leaning out of his bedroom window, staring at him questioningly. It’s only then that Mycroft realizes he’s walked straight past the house. 

 

*

 

The way he’d felt at your house haunts him all night. He tries to pass it off as madness, tries to blame it on the fact that you've been a good friend to him, the first person his age to accept him and not mock him, but his stomach churns with something else each time. He tosses and turns in bed, wondering why, when it had been so embarrassing, one of the only things he seems capable of thinking about is what it would be like to make a woman gasp the way your father had? He can’t understand what’s happening to him… 

 

*

 

The following night, when you’re at his and you’re watching television together, Mycroft tries to figure it all out by looking at you. He’s had this odd, prickling feeling inside him whenever he’s been around you all day, as if now that he’s become aware of the way you can effect him, and the way that you can tease him, smile and how soft your hair is, not to mention the way that you can sing, he’s incapable of going back to a time when he was oblivious to such things. No matter how much he wants to, because, quite frankly, such a time was far simpler. But just because he knows that much doesn’t mean he understands what he’s feeling any more. You smile and let out a soft laugh at something that you find funny on the TV. Mycroft feels a jolt of something, before his whole face softens. God you look so pretty with your eyes sparkling like that. He can add that to the list of things he’s never noticed about you before. Mycroft catches himself. He leans back and his face flickers with something at the exact same time that you turn your head and look at him curiously. 

 

“What?” you murmur softly, your brow slightly furrowed and your eyes questioning. 

 

“Nothing,” Mycroft says, leaning back even more and smoothing his hair back off his face. His forehead curl, as usual, doesn’t obey him You look at him suspiciously. “It’s erm,” Mycroft begins, as he thinks that he should say something, “Quite good this programme isn't it?” he adds as he waves a hand, before both come to rest on his legs where they fidget together restlessly. 

 

Your face softens, “Yes, yes it is,” you say, before you turn back to the television screen. 

 

Mycroft relaxes and looks at the television himself for a while, before his helpless eyes find themselves sliding back to you again. 

 

You’re grinning now, a proper grin, which shows off your slightly imperfectly straight teeth. Mycroft smiles and leans closer, slouching down so that he can watch you more covertly. Delight flickers across your eyes and you laugh again. Mycroft lets out a soft breath. He doesn’t know what’s happening to him, but he finds that he doesn’t much care when you look like this. 

 

Someone clears their throat behind you and Mycroft jolts upwards, whilst your laughter cuts itself short. 

 

Mycroft looks around to see that his mother’s leaning against the entranceway between the kitchen and the living room. Her arms are folded and there’s an amused, knowing expression on her face as she looks at him. _“Mummy!”_ Mycroft squeaks, blushing profusely, as if she’s just caught him doing something very naughty indeed, which, he supposes in a way, she has. That realization only makes him flush even more. 

 

“Hi,” you say as you look around yourself.

 

“Hello again dear,” she tells you, before she looks at her son and says, “It’s getting rather late,” right on cue she yawns, “I'm going to head up. Will you both be okay?”

 

Mycroft nods and glances at you, before his eyes go back to his mother. “Yes Mummy, we’ll just finish watching this programme and then I’ll walk F/N home.”

 

“You don’t have to,” you say at once, looking at him. 

 

“Nonsense,” Mycroft informs you briskly, “Like Mummy said it’s getting late.”

 

You swallow and nod, before both Mycroft’s and your eyes go back to that of his mother. 

 

“Such a sweet boy,” Mummy coos, instantly making Mycroft blush, “I’ll leave you to your programme then, goodnight dears.”

 

“Night,” you both chorus slightly self-consciously, before both of your eyes go back to the television. 

 

For a moment Mycroft finds that his hands can’t do anything but fidget, whilst his stomach already feels tight at the thought that Mummy might right now be making assumptions about how he feels for you when he isn't even sure of how he does himself. But then, as the programme and your laughter begin to wash over him once more, he begins to relax. 

 

During the ad break when you’re both comfortably slouched down you clear your throat and turn to him. Mycroft-aware of every minute move you’re making-looks at you immediately. “Actually,” you begin, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something”- Mycroft’s heart jolts in panic. His stomach flips and then it flops. Could you be about to-“There’s this party next weekend, mother’s making me go to it”- Mycroft relaxes somewhat. Not what he was thinking of then. He inwardly chides himself for being so silly to think of such a thing in the first place-“Every year, around party season, which we’re now entering, she likes me to focus on becoming a respectable young lady.” You grimace. “Anyway,” you wave a hand, “It’s at this snooty girl’s house. She goes to the private school at the top of town, but lives at home, and her parents are all like, ‘Oh look dear is that a pheasant?’ and ‘Yes, let’s shoot it for dinner what?’ and though I’ve been to loads before they’re all really horrible, so I was wondering if you might come with me?”

 

As Mycroft takes in all of your hurried words, from the party, to your mother and the pheasant, his brow slowly becomes less creased. “Would that be appropriate though, what with me not being…” 

 

“Oh yes it would be fine,” you reassure him, “I wouldn't have asked otherwise. You could borrow one of my father’s suits,” you tell him temptingly. 

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft waves a hand, clearly feeling awkward. 

 

“It’ll be fine! Father loves you!”-

 

“I'm not sure about that”-

 

“Please Mycroft,” you say, pulling a sad, pouty face and speaking in a babyish tone, _“Please…”_

 

His stomach does that annoying flip and then flop thing again. He nods, powerless. 

 

Your reaction is instant. You beam and pull him into a hug, which is over before Mycroft has even caught more than a whiff of the sweet scent that surrounds you. “Thank you,” you say, sounding exhilarated. Mycroft smiles awkwardly, his hands fidgeting again. They smooth out the creases in his jeans, before they come to a stop on top of them. “You’ll be fine,” you tell him, thinking that he’s just being anxious about the party and not having a clue that he’s actually trying to memorize the quick feel of you as you’d hugged him. Mycroft nods and gives you a quick smile. 

 

You both go back to watching the programme. 

 

When it’s done a quarter-of-an-hour later, you stretch, before you force yourself to stand up. You would have been quite happy to just stay slumped on the settee with Mycroft for the rest of the night, but you’re not quite sure what your friend would have made of it if you’d fallen asleep. He’d probably have ended up waking his mother and you’re reluctant to get on the wrong side of her just in case that would mean you can’t come around as much. Mycroft switches the TV off with one press of the remote and stands up too, placing the remote back on the ring-stained coffee table. 

 

“You don’t have to walk me home you know,” you say, pushing your hair back from your face, before you stuff one hand in the pocket of your black jeans awkwardly. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, but you can tell from the small smile that’s on his face that he’s going to follow you out and walk you home nonetheless. 

 

Once you’re outside you shiver and stuff your hands even more insistently into the pockets of your jeans, whilst Mycroft closes the door behind him. The sky is almost black above you and full of stars. 

 

“Cold?” Mycroft asks when he turns back to you. 

 

“Mm,” you say, grateful for when you both begin to walk. 

 

Mycroft tries to think of a way that he can make you less cold, or of something that would be wildly appropriate or clever to say, but he can’t think of anything. 

 

You huddle closer to him to try and keep warm. Mycroft looks at you. Your breaths mix in the cold air as he does so. It feels oddly intimate. “I hope it won’t be this cold on the night of the party,” you say, thinking of the dress your mother’s making you wear, “It’s more like January than September.”

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft hums, oblivious to what you’ll be wearing on Saturday night. Finally thinking of something more substantial to say he asks, “What sort of people will be there?”-you open your mouth-“Are they all the type to shoot pheasants?” 

 

You snort and nudge at his shoulder a little. A jolt of something runs through Mycroft. “Pretty much,” you grin, before you spend the rest of the walk telling him about the Abernathy's.

 

Mr. Edward Abernathy is a very rich man, largely down to his father who was a very successful solicitor until he died suddenly two years ago. Mrs. Holly Abernathy was almost too thrilled by her father-in-law’s death and has lived the life of a lady ever since, with nothing-if you’re to be believed-better to do all day than decide what her next expensive purchase will be, whilst she prepares for the next season of balls and parties. Her particular focus at the moment is on her sixteen-year-old daughter Libby, who’s blonde and full of her own self-worth. It’s your estimation that she spends more money on make-up than she does on anything else. Mycroft has to laugh at that. Clearly you don’t like the girl. 

 

All too soon you’re drawing to a stop outside the gate to your house and turning to each other.

 

“Well, thank you for walking me home,” you say, “And-And for agreeing to come to the party.”

 

Mycroft nods, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmurs.

 

You nod and he watches as you turn around with a small smile and a wave. You practically skip up the path, your head God knows where, and Mycroft watches you entranced the whole time. He straightens up completely when you turn back once you’re by the door to give him another wave and smile. You disappear inside, and as Mycroft walks back home he finds that all he can see is you skipping through his mind, the energy you possess as bright as the sun. 

 

He lets himself back into the house with a soft sigh. There’s a light on in the kitchen. He frowns and pads towards it, wondering if it’s Sherlock up doing another one of his late-night experiments. To his surprise however it’s not his brother, but his mother. She sits by the table with her dark purple dressing gown on over her night things, two steaming mugs of hot chocolate in front of her and four digestive biscuits off to the side. 

 

 _“Mummy,”_ Mycroft splutters, feeling quite taken back by the sight of her and the way that she’s looking at him so calculatingly, her eyes gleaming, “I thought you’d gone to bed?”

 

Mummy shrugs leisurely, her ankles crossed underneath the chair she’s sitting on. She dips a biscuit into one of the cups equally as casually, “I thought I’d stay up a bit longer and make a drink for when my gallant son returned home,” she says. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ Mycroft blushes, surprised, “Thank you.” He goes towards the table and picks up one of the cups, before he steps back and brings it to his lips. The liquid warms his insides instantly. 

 

“So,” Mummy begins, shifting her position a bit, and as she does so she reminds him of next-door neighbour’s cat swishing its tail. Something it does often, apart from that one time when a very young Sherlock had tried to cut its tail off with a pair of very blunt scissors. _“F/N,”_ Mummy says, bringing Mycroft out of his thought. 

 

 _“F-F/N?”_ he questions, before he hurriedly sips at his hot chocolate some more. 

 

“Is a nice girl isn't she?” Mummy asks with that same beady-eyed look about her as she continues to survey him. Mycroft shifts his position and nods, knowing that he’s done for, but wanting to lessen the damage from this the best he can. “What would you say you liked best about her?”

 

Several things come to Mycroft’s mind immediately. Your intelligence, the easy way he can talk to you, your independent streak, the way you've accepted him. He swallows. “I-um-I don’t know,” he says, his nose almost colliding with the edge of his cup in his haste to take a sip of his drink again. 

 

Mummy leans back and looks at him as if to say, _‘Really?’_ “Very pretty too isn't she?” she asks, sipping at her own drink. 

 

“I-I”- Mycroft says, before he puts his cup hurriedly back down onto the table and wipes his hands on his jeans, “I can’t say I’ve noticed,” he blurts out, trying not to picture your face in his mind as he does so. He fumbles for one of the biscuits on the table as his stomach swirls with guilt about what he’s just said. He brings it up to his mouth tentatively and nibbles on the edge of it. He feels like he’s betrayed you, betrayed something sacred. 

 

“The way you were looking at her earlier I couldn't help but wonder if you've got a little crush?” Mummy questions, leaning forwards. 

 

Mycroft opens and closes his mouth a couple of times. He can feel an odd prickling sensation at his armpits. 

 

“Who’s got a ‘little crush?’” Sherlock asks, sauntering in wearing a black t-shirt and grey pyjama bottoms. 

 

“Your brother on F/N,” Mummy says, before Mycroft can even tell his brother to go and mind his own sodding business. He looks at his mother horrified. She just shrugs and pulls a face as if to ask, _‘What did you expect me to say?’_ Her mouth is lined with biscuit crumbs. Mycroft sighs. 

 

 _“Eurgh,”_ is Sherlock’s instant response, before he turns and looks Mycroft up and down appraisingly. He shakes his head, “You’ll never get anywhere with her looking like that, _Fatcroft.”_

 

Mycroft looks down and pushes at his stomach instinctively with his hands. He _is_ looking a bit tubby. He swallows, suddenly feeling horrified that, that stomach he’s looking down at is the same one he’s had bulging out in full show whenever you’d looked across to him that night. Perhaps he should exercise more. 

 

“Sherlock don’t call your brother that,” Mummy chides. 

 

Mycroft swallows. “No, no,” he says resignedly, taking his hands off his stomach, “It’s quite all right. In any case Mummy I think you've rather got the wrong end of the stick. F/N and I are just friends, and even, even if I _did_ feel something more”-Sherlock shakes his head with a knowing disgust-“I expect that Sherlock’s quite right. When it comes down to it she’d never look at me that way, not with her background.” He smiles rather sadly, as if he’s just come out of a very nice dream only to realize it’s not true. He turns away from them both and his half-drunk hot chocolate and makes his way quietly upstairs. 

 

“Why did you have to say that?” Mummy asks, bopping Sherlock on the head as he reaches to finish off Mycroft’s hot chocolate. 

 

Sherlock shrugs.

 

Mummy rolls her eyes and leaves him for Mycroft’s bedroom. Her son is sitting on his bed, still fully dressed apart from his shoes and with his back resting loosely against the headboard, one hand over one of his knees and his other knee bent sideways, whilst his remaining hand fidgets with the duvet cover. He’s staring at the wall broodingly, though his eyes shift to hers when she enters. 

 

He clears his throat and draws both of his knees to his chest, “I’ll be going to bed soon Mummy.”

 

“That’s very well,” she nods, coming to sit on the edge of the bed and toying delicately with his hand for a moment, before hers stills there as she murmurs, “F/N’s been a good friend to you”-

 

Mycroft opens his mouth, “Yes, but that’s _all”-_ he begins, before he breaks off when she raises a finger. 

 

“And from what I’ve seen of her she doesn’t seem one to look down at others or choose to go out with someone purely because of what class they come from,” Mummy tells him wisely. 

 

“No,” Mycroft struggles, “But”-

 

“So,” Mummy interrupts, “Why don’t you tell her how you feel and see where things go from there?”

 

Mycroft swallows. He imagines sitting on the settee with you one night, just like you’d been doing on that one, and blurting the words out. He sees your face transform into shock, but he does not see what happens after that because his eyes return to the present and to Mummy in front of him once more. “Because”- he breaks off. It’s no good. He can’t explain it. 

 

Mummy strokes at his hand soothingly, “Has she ever shown any signs that she might be interested in you in that way?”

 

Mycroft swallows; he’s not really sure what such signs would be. “We've always been able to talk to each other fairly easily,” he begins awkwardly, scrunching his face up, “And-And the other day, w-we ended up singing together”- Mummy looks a little surprised by this, singing isn't usually something her son would do-“It was as if, I don’t know, as if she was giving me something special, revealing her heart to me, but”- he looks down and tugs at his top angrily-“She’d never want to go out with me. Not when I look like this. Why would she?”

 

Mummy looks at him with soft, gentle understanding about her face. “To add to what I’ve said previously,” she says and Mycroft looks at her, looking a little sick, but willing to listen all the same, “F/N doesn’t seem the type who would value physical appearances above all else. In any case you’re beautiful Mykie”- Mycroft pulls a bit of a face and Mummy can tell that he just thinks she’s saying that as his mother-“But if you did want to lose some weight than you could do so quite easily. All it would involve is making small changes to your normal routine. You could even do something with F/N”-

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft begins hurriedly. 

 

“All right,” Mummy interrupts him, patting at his hand, “But I don’t think you need to be so afraid. If you were to tell F/N how you feel then I'm sure even if she didn't feel quite so strongly you’d still be able to be friends”-Mycroft looks thoughtful and contemplative-“If you wanted to I could get Sherlock out of the house one evening and you could use the chance to”-

 

“There’s a party next Saturday,” Mycroft blurts out suddenly, “F/N’s invited me to it.”

 

Mummy’s face clears and she looks pleased, “Then why not”-

 

“She said that I could wear one of her father’s suits because I don’t have my own,” Mycroft confesses, looking embarrassed. 

 

“A suit Mykie, oh you’ll look so smart, and I'm sure F/N will look lovely too”-Mycroft blushes-“Oh you’ll have to come here and let me see you both, before you go onto it.”

 

“I'm not sure if”- Mycroft begins, looking alarmed.

 

_“Mycroft Holmes”-_

 

“All right,” Mycroft says, raising his hands up in supplication, and Mummy smiles, kissing at his cheek, before she pinches it. Mycroft pulls an awkward face.

 

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Mummy says, standing up and turning towards him, “I’ll have a chat with F/N, before you go to this party, and if I think she likes you as much as you like her then I’ll send you a signal”-

 

 _“Mummy,”_ Mycroft protests, pulling a bit of a face and not liking that idea at all. 

 

“Don’t worry,” she says, pointing a finger at him, “Just think about everything that I’ve said. You don’t have to tell F/N how you feel at this party, but just let me try and prove to you that there’s nothing to worry about.”

 

Mycroft nods uncertainly and she leaves a moment later looking as if she’s brimming with thoughts and ideas. Suddenly Mycroft hopes that time will slow right down and it will take an age for Saturday and the party to come. 

 

*

 

Much to Mycroft’s chagrin the party comes quickly, and he finds himself feeling a little itchy and uncomfortable in one of your father’s old grey suits, whilst he paces back and forth in the entranceway of your house as he waits for you to finish dressing and come downstairs. 

 

He’s been worrying about Mummy talking to you all week, as well as getting confused and anguished about his own feelings for you because when it comes down to it he feels certain that any such emotions are just a misrepresentation of a future reality. Like Sherlock said, and no matter what Mummy had, you’d never feel the same, and it’s these same thoughts that worry his mind as he waits for you. But then you come down the left-hand staircase in a navy, flowing dress that reaches right down to the floor with your hair bunched elegantly on top of your head, and his stomach does that flip flop thing again, whilst his mouth goes all dry. Suddenly he’s just made up of a bunch of feelings that he’d rather avoid. 

 

Your face brightens and you smile at his reaction. No one else might, but at least Mycroft thinks you look nice. Your hand grasps onto the brown banister so that you won’t fall. You step off the stairs and go across to him so that you can survey him properly. 

 

He’s finally managed to close his mouth, but you have to admit as you stop in front of him that he still looks rather comical. Your father’s trousers have had to be rolled up a little and the jacket’s far too big on him. Whilst the white shirt looks old and almost yellow around his neck, and the blue tie hangs down unevenly. 

 

You step forwards and adjust it a little. Mycroft inhales as you do so and you look at him encouragingly. _“There,”_ you murmur once the two strands of the tie are more level with one another. You step back. 

 

“Oh F/N you do look nice dear,” your mother’s voice carries across to you as she strides from the direction of the kitchen towards you both. She doesn’t compliment Mycroft. 

 

*

 

“Sorry about this,” Mycroft says, once you’re back across the river and approaching his house. He can’t help but frown at the way that you've got to lift up your dress so that it won’t brush against all the dirt on the ground. Can’t help but think that this was a silly idea and that he should never have let Mummy persuade him.

 

“It’s all right,” you say, letting out a little breath and looking up at him, “It makes sense that your mother would want to see you all dressed up.”

 

He smiles at you awkwardly, before a hollering cry distracts him. His head jerks to face the front and he lets out a groan without being able to help it when he sees Mummy standing just outside the front door step and waving at you both. 

 

You can’t help but smile at Violet. She’s always so enthusiastic and supportive. But when you catch the expression on your friend’s face you say, “It’s all right,” before you grab at his arm and pull him the rest of the way. 

 

Mycroft flushes at once, both at the contact and the fact that his mother’s watching with a very satisfied look upon her face, but you, too intent on your destination, don’t notice. 

 

“Oh dears, you look stunning,” Mummy gushes and Mycroft shifts his position as you let go of his arm. 

 

“Thank you,” you tell her, looking pleased, but you frown a moment later when Sherlock suddenly emerges, pushing past his mother and only giving Mycroft half-a-glance, before he lets out a mocking snort. 

 

“It doesn’t even fit you right Fatcroft”-Mycroft’s cheeks go pink at Sherlock calling him that-“But I can see why they gave you that one, they knew they’d need to allow enough room for your stomach”-

 

“Sherlock,” you say reproachfully, but the youngest Holmes brother just ignores you and walks off down the street.

 

Mummy tuts after him. 

 

“It’s fine F/N,” Mycroft says quietly, looking down at his shoes.

 

“I don’t know why you let him call you that,” you say, frowning even more as you look at your friend. 

 

Mycroft swallows and shifts his position, before he smiles when he thinks of something. “I expect that was just him being a grade-A bitch,” he says, looking at you and you smile at him in delight, whilst Mummy pats at his arm and lets out a slightly chiding, but more amused, “Oh _Mycroft,”_ to remind you both of her presence. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and steps a little further away from you. 

 

“I know that you have to be going, but I must have a photo of you”-

 

 _“Mummy,”_ Mycroft protests. 

 

“F/N,” Violet says, turning her gaze to you and acting as if her son had never spoken, “Why don’t you come help me get the camera? I think it might be amongst some rubbish in the spare room and two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

 

“Okay,” you swallow. 

 

“We won’t be a minute Mycroft dear,” Mummy says, turning around to go back into the house, and you shoot Mycroft, who’s looking both uncertain and uneasy, a brief smile, before you follow after her. 

 

You’re careful with your dress as you go upstairs. Then you follow her to the spare room, which is located next to Mycroft’s. It’s a box room and a bed takes up most of it. Not that you can see much of the bed because it’s taken up with all manner of rubbish. Violet shifts inside and frowns. You bend down and attempt to carefully sift through some of the objects in search for the camera. 

 

“So, are you looking forward to this evening F/N?” Violet asks, straightening up now, whilst you continue the search. 

 

“Oh, um, yeah,” you say, your hands freezing up. Your eyes glance at her quickly, before you look back down again, “I wasn't much looking forward to going, but I'm feeling better now that Mycroft’s going with me.”

 

Violet smiles, encouraged by the fact that you've brought up her son yourself. She bends down again, “I'm sure you’ll always be able to rely on Mycroft should you need him for anything dear,” she tells you. 

 

The thought makes you smile, “He’s been a good friend,” you murmur. 

 

“You seem to have a good time with each other,” Violet begins, before she adds cautiously, “Tell me off if you mind me saying this dear, but I get the feeling that you've both found one another at the perfect time.”

 

You swallow, your eyes glancing up, down and then up at her again, “No, I don’t mind you saying that. I suppose we have…” you trail off. 

 

Violet smiles, and then, deciding not to press you because she feels sure she’s got the answer she needs, she finds the camera whose location she’d known from the off with an, “Ah, here we are dear.”

 

You straighten up and smile at her a little awkwardly, before you both head back downstairs. 

 

Once you reach Mycroft, who looks between his mother and you a little hurriedly, Violet shoves the camera into his hands, “Turn that on for me would you dear?” she says, mostly for your benefit. Then, whilst you've got your head turned and you’re looking down the street, she says with her mouth close to Mycroft’s ear, “Tell her.”

 

He swallows and his fingers fumble awkwardly as they try to pull the camera out of its case when you look back at him. He gives you a tight smile and you smile obliviously at him in return, before he looks down again. 

 

“Oh Mycroft, you’re all fingers and thumbs, here,” Mummy says, taking the camera case away from him, “I think the sight of F/N in such a pretty dress has made you all clumsy.”

 

 _“Mummy,”_ Mycroft hisses, appalled, before he looks at you. But you’re just smiling like you think the whole thing’s quite funny, and even when Mummy takes a photo he gets the sense that you have no idea of how he feels for you; you hang onto his arm and give a big, beaming smile for Mummy’s benefit quite happily. Though he’s of course glad that Mummy must have been subtle and not revealed his feelings to you as he’d feared she might he’s once again left wondering if you feel the same. You’re acting so casual and blasé about everything after all. 

 

“There,” Mummy says, satisfied with the three photos she’s taken, before she waves you off, sending Mycroft a significant look that he hopes you hadn’t seen and telling you both to have a good night as she does so. 

 

“Your mother’s brilliant,” you tell him, your hand looped around his arm still.

 

Mycroft peers down at you with a small smile upon his face, “You think so?” he asks.

 

“Mmmhmm,” you say, still grinning, before your face becomes more serious once as you add, “I wish she was _my_ mother.”

 

“Well,” Mycroft swallows, “I’d be happier to share her with you than Sherlock,” he confesses. He feels pleased when a smile appears back on your face. 

 

“You always say the right things,” you breathe, tilting your head down against his arm.

 

Mycroft swallows. Then, feeling suddenly emboldened, he blurts out, “F/N, wait,” at the very moment you reach the bridge by the river. You stop and turn towards each other. This is it. His heart pounds, but he feels oddly as if this is the right place to tell you how he feels, it’s caught in between both of your worlds after all. He opens his mouth. You look at him curiously with questioning eyes and a slightly furrowed brow. He takes a deep breath. “F/N, I-I need to tell you something”-

 

“Ha, look who it is!” comes a familiar, mocking voice, and Mycroft lets out a breath of irritation, before you both turn to see Mickey Ross and Andy Jenkins leading their little gang of bullies towards you. They’re all carrying small, green bottles of beer. 

 

You frown. You've got no idea of the significance of what Mycroft was about to say, but you can’t help but feel annoyed nonetheless. 

 

“Where are you two off to? A fairytale ball?” Ross chides. 

 

“If we are then that makes you the trolls standing in our way,” you retort coolly, and Mycroft shifts his position uncomfortably. 

 

Ross looks at you consideringly, whilst Jenkins steps forwards and begins to circle you both. Mycroft shifts closer to you. His fingers twitch as he gets the urge to take your hand, but, in present company, he thinks better of it. 

 

“Couldn't even get a suit to fit you could you ginger snap?” Jenkins chides, before he throws his bottle hard down on the floor. The glass splinters, sending the rest of the beer spurting over Mycroft’s shoes. Mycroft flinches, lets out a breath and stumbles sideways into you. You let out a little squeak, before you stagger across. “Now look what you did, you made me lose my beer,” Jenkins announces. The group of boys closes in. 

 

“I bet we could do anything right now and you wouldn't do anything,” Ross says to Mycroft. 

 

“Or you could just leave and let us be on our way,” you suggest, scared but determined to not show it. 

 

Ross and Jenkins laugh and the other boys titter. Mycroft swallows. 

 

“Now why would we want to do that?” Ross asks, stepping forwards so that he’s directly in front of you.

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” you pretend to think, “Maybe because otherwise I’d do this,” you lunge forwards, grab Ross’s bottle from him and lob it in the centre of the group. You hear the splinter of it as it cracks coming into contact with the floor, and as the shards explode outwards you grab Mycroft’s arm and turn him away from the scene. “Run!” you cry, whilst the boys are distracted, before you begin to hurry across the bridge. Mycroft falters, before he hurries after you. You slow down into a quick walk, until you think that you must be relatively safe amongst a second street of posh houses and come to a stop. 

 

“The bottom of your dress,” Mycroft pants, drawing level with you. 

 

You look down and frown when you see that it’s both damp and stained with grime. It couldn't have exactly been helped though. 

 

“Here,” Mycroft says, passing you a clean handkerchief from his trouser pocket, “Try and clean it off a little.”

 

You take it from him gratefully and bend down to rub at the mess that is now the bottom of your dress. You get the worst of it off and then you notice that Mycroft’s trousers have unravelled a little from where they’d been rolled up, so you adjust them, whilst you’re down there. Mycroft barely breathes as you do so, not just because of the act, but because he feels as helpless as a child and he hates himself for it. You straighten up. 

 

“That was a pretty clever thing you did back there,” Mycroft begins, unable to not mention it. 

 

“Oh, it was just a simple distraction technique,” you say, brushing the compliment off, before you smile at him and carry on walking. 

 

You walk for a while in silence, both of you rather lost in your thought as your heels clack against the damp pavement. You’re feeling annoyed with Ross and Jenkins for turning up at the worst possibly moment and feeling at the same time grateful that you’d managed to figure a way out. Whilst Mycroft, because of your words, is only thinking even more that he should have been the one to get you both out of there and that he should have never had to rely on you to do so. Ross had been right; if it had been up to him they could have done anything to you. You’re his best friend and he’d just let the situation escalate…his thoughts grow more anguished as you go on, turning into a self-loathing, and he knows that he can’t tell you how he feels now. Not only has he lost the appetite to do so, but also he feels that he’s not worthy of you in the first place. 

 

The Abernathy’s house-as big as yours-is on the next corner, and as you take the last few steps on the pavement towards it-going past a parked long red limousine-music and chatter float out of it. 

 

Mycroft suddenly loses all of his nerve, and though he follows you a little closer to the house he hangs back. It’s enough for you to stop, turn around and look at him. “Maybe this was a bad idea”- Mycroft begins. 

 

You’re coming,” you tell him.

 

“But F/N look at me,” he gestures to his rather rumpled suit, “I don’t look good enough to go inside somewhere where people have limousines and”-

 

“You look fine,” you tell him.

 

“No one else seems to think so,” he says, looking downcast. 

 

“That’s because you’re listening to the wrong people,” you tell him, folding your arms, “If you’re going to listen to people like your brother, Ross and Jenkins and not your best friend then”-

 

Finally a smile breaks out across Mycroft’s face, and, feeling relieved you make to grab at his arm at the same time he takes a step forwards. Your bodies collide together and you let out a little gasping sound, whilst Mycroft’s hands curl around your waist to steady you. He clears his throat, goes bright red and lets you go. You blush a little, step back and run a hand through your hair, before you turn towards the small black gate that’s by the side of the house and which leads to the garden. “Come,” you tell him, before you clear your throat a little when you realize that its gone dry. 

 

“Shouldn't we go through the front?” Mycroft asks anxiously. 

 

You shake your head, “Trust me,” you say, looking at him, “We’ll get accosted at the front. It will be much easier for us to sneak in.” You turn back, unlatch the gate and push it open. Mycroft looks both ways apprehensively. You grab at his hand and lead him through the small, narrow dirt path with the house on one side of you and a tall, black fence on the other, before you come out into the large garden. 

 

Noise and light assault you. There are people everywhere, some dancing to the music that streams out of the open doors to the ballroom and others chatting with drinks. Fairy lights are strung up along the bushes, some of which are vibrating, oddly enough, with shrieks and laughter. You grimace. You've found that despite their upper class hereditary the people from this part of society can often be more vulgar than anyone else. 

 

Mycroft swallows and shifts beside you, turned off by how smartly dressed and knowledgeable everyone looks and by the vibrating bushes, which only serve to remind him of his previous musings about what it would be like to be intimate with a woman. “I-I'm still not sure if”-

 

“You’re here now,” you tell him, before you start a moment later when you hear a voice.

 

“Hey F/N!” it calls in both a loud and charming fashion, “You’re not usually one to sneak in the back way, pardon the phrase.”

 

Mycroft and you both turn to look at the newcomer who’s bounding towards you from the left, Mycroft blushing a little when he deduces the secondary meaning of the boy’s words. A thin teen just a little shorter than Mycroft with loose blond curls that stretch down to his shoulders and brown eyes swaggers towards you. Mycroft and your hands tighten their grip on the others instinctively. 

 

“Jasper,” you nod coolly once the boy stops before you. 

 

“This is the only time she wears a dress can you believe it? With legs like hers? And then she turns up in one that doesn’t even show them off,” Jasper moans to Mycroft, before he looks down at the way your hands are linked and asks, “So who’s this then F/N? You know you don’t have to come if you've already got a boyfriend right? Or did you just want to show him off to us all?”

 

Mycroft realizes suddenly what this is. It’s a party for the rich to assess and potentially pick a life partner from the few who have been deemed respectable enough to attend. He suddenly feels angry and sad and more foolish than ever. He doesn’t belong here. But why hadn’t you been honest with him? Thank God he’d never told you how he feels. He would have only looked like more of an idiot if your goal in coming tonight had been to find a boyfriend. 

 

“We’re just friends,” you say guardedly, bringing Mycroft out of his thought, though you let go of his hand all the same, and for some reason that makes Mycroft even angrier.

 

“Why didn't you tell me what this party was really about?” he asks turning to you. 

 

“I-I”- you stammer out. 

 

“I'm going home,” he huffs out, reluctant to elaborate on his feelings, or indeed argue, with Jasper present. 

 

“No Mycroft don’t,” you plead, grabbing at his arm, whilst Jasper looks in between the two of you with interest. Mycroft frowns, but you can tell that at the very least he’s not going to leave straight away, so you let go of him and say, “I-I don’t know why I didn't tell you. I just thought it wouldn't matter”-

 

“But if you brought me here under false pretences, so you wouldn't have to go out with any of these people”- losing more of his inhibition as he struggles to understand.

 

“I'm hurt,” Jasper cries, raising a hand to his chest, but both Mycroft and you ignore him. 

 

“Or so that I could stand off to the side alone, whilst you have fun when I thought we were going to be together all night”-

 

“I didn't bring you here because of either of those things, I knew I’d have to go off a little bit…” you confess, before, when Mycroft's face darkens, you hurriedly add, “But I brought you here as a friend, I want to be with you as much as possible so we can talk and try to have fun.” Still, he doesn’t look convinced. You continue to look at him desperately, but you can’t think of anything else to say. 

 

“Look newbie,” Jasper says, stepping forwards, “Whether she told you the truth or not, you don’t belong here, everyone can see that”-

 

 _“Jasper”-_ you protest, but you don’t say anything more when the blond boy raises a hand. 

 

“But if you want to stay then I suggest you adapt. Now, I'm going to take F/N to dance, and I suggest you find a pretty girl and do the same.” With that he makes to steer you away. 

 

Before you turn properly and allow yourself to be led away however you reach out to tap your hand against Mycroft’s. _‘Stay,’_ you mouth. 

 

He swallows, before he nods resignedly. But as soon as you disappear inside the ballroom and get lost among the throng of dancers he shoves his hands into the pockets of the ill-fitting suit and scowls moodily at the ground. He has no intention of dancing tonight, especially with any one who isn't you, and he thinks that even if you asked him in that moment he’d be reluctant to. He just feels like you've messed him around and used him as a shield between you and your posh associates. He feels irritated with the whole situation, and as he does one circuit of the gardens he can’t help but feel like nothing has gone right the whole evening, before he slips inside the ballroom. 

 

He heads for the back wall, hoping to blend in and not draw attention to himself in the suit that he’s still feeling embarrassed about. The ballroom, a splendid black and white delicacy with chandeliers is full of dancing couples and eager onlookers. He spots you looking a little awkward in Jasper’s arms and frowns. 

 

The night continues to pass in a similar fashion. Time after time you dance with one boy after another and he finds himself frowning at each pairing, looking at each boy and finding some fault. Too short, too muscley, too pompous, too hairy. He can’t help but think that Mummy must have gotten the wrong end of the stick as he looks at them. Whatever you’d said to her when you’d both been looking for the camera, at the end of the day, and no matter what you’d said in the past about your mother forcing you, you’d still come to this party, and now you’re here you seem to be as keen as anyone else to find a romantic partner. Mycroft frowns. He can’t believe that he was stupid and naïve enough to think that he could just blurt out how he feels and that you’d say you feel the same and that it would really be that easy. The truth is, that no matter what faults all these boys dancing with you have, they’re the type of people that your parents and probably you find respectable. They’re wealthy and most of them are well groomed. They come from the same sort of background as you and so they know how these things work. What’s he to them? He’s poor, plump and he doesn’t even own a suit. He doesn’t deserve you. But as much as he feels momentarily morose about the fact he feels a sense of determination swell within him too. For the fact is that he’s your best friend and he’s the one who you can talk to so easily, not any of these puffed up teens, so, although he doesn’t deserve you right now, perhaps he could one day. Suddenly he knows what he’ll do. He’ll work hard; get a job in MI6 or at the very least something respectable that will show both your parents and you what he’s capable of. Then, if you still don’t like him in that way at least he’ll have bettered himself in the process of finding out. But hopefully, he thinks, you will. Whatever the case, he assures himself, he won’t make you aware of his feelings until he’s in a better position than he is now, until he’s actually _worthy_ of you. That way he’ll spare himself the inevitable rejection that he’d face from you at the moment and put himself in the best position possible. He nods, feeling pleased with his plan. He goes back to admiring the way that your hair shines in the light and how you seem to be both a mixture of confidence and a charming clumsiness on the floor. It endears you to him, but he doesn’t get much of a chance to value such things because there’s a sudden thump of noise beside him. 

 

Mycroft turns his head to see that a short, blonde girl has just come to stand beside him. She stands far too close to him that she ends up having to twist her head in an awkward fashion just to look up at him. She sucks rather flirtatiously on the red and white straw that’s in her drink the whole time she does so. “Haven’t seen you around here before.” 

 

Mycroft, not knowing what to do, just nods at her. 

 

On the floor, still dancing with Mr. Too Hairy as Mycroft had coined him, or Mr. Steven Baker as he is actually known, your eyes dart to Mycroft as you turn and you can’t help but frown when you see Libby Abernathy beside him, engaging him in conversation. Your hand tightens a little on Steven’s arm. 

 

“Is everything all right?” Mr. Baker asks. 

 

You nod distractedly, and when he turns you again you tilt your head back to cast both Mycroft and Libby one curious last glance. You've kept one eye on Mycroft all night, almost wishing that someone would go up to him just so that you don’t have to feel so guilty about leaving him alone and not being more honest with him. You’d be with him more yourself if it weren’t for the fact that your mother will be expecting a full report of all the boys you've danced with, and you know from past experience that you can’t get away with lying, so you have to indulge some. Yet now Libby _has_ gone up to him you find that you’d do almost anything to have Mycroft standing on his own again, and you’re quite convinced that when this dance comes to an end you’ll go across there and join him yourself. 

 

Back by the wall Libby asks Mycroft, “Are your parents rich?” whilst she flutters her eyelashes. 

 

 _“No,”_ Mycroft blurts out, without even taking a moment to think about what the best answer might be. 

 

She looks immediately disgruntled and moves away from him. 

 

Mycroft lets out a breath of relief, before his eyes go to find you in the crowd again. 

 

You've stopped dancing with Mr. Too Hairy and you’re now in a position, by the looks of it, where you’re trying to avoid dancing with Jasper again. The boy’s gesturing melodramatically with his hands. Mycroft frowns. Your eyes do a sweep around and finally land on him. You look relieved and gesture for him to come forwards, _‘Rescue me,’_ you mouth. 

 

Mycroft, overcome with a sudden determination, moves forwards, squaring his shoulders as he does so. He might be holding off on announcing his feelings to you, but he can still be there for you when you need him. He’s only taken a couple of steps forwards however when his phone vibrates insistently in his pocket. He curses. Why now? Why not all the time before when he’d been idly watching you and growing more and more irritable? He stops and frowns. It’s rare that he gets a phone call. It could be Sherlock prank calling him again. One time he’d pretended that Mycroft had ordered twelve cakes from the bakery and hadn’t paid for them. He gets the feeling though that it isn't Sherlock and, in spite of himself, his hand brings his phone out of his pocket anyway. Seeing it’s Mummy he frowns and takes the call. 

 

When you see that Mycroft’s on the phone and unable to rescue you, your heart sinks and your hands go back to fending off Jasper’s attempts to tug you into another dance. 

 

You look back to Mycroft a moment later, only to frown when you see him coming off the phone looking pale and harried, before he pushes his way through the ballroom and makes for the front door. “I have to”- you say, dodging past Jasper and making your way through everyone else as you follow quickly after Mycroft. 

 

He’s already hopping down the steps when you catch up to him. “Mycroft, wait!” you cry. He whirls around to see that you’re standing breathlessly at the top of the steps, looking down at him. You meet his eyes for a brief moment, before you clatter down the steps. “What is it?” you ask, “What’s wrong?”

 

He shifts his position and looks down the street longingly, before he looks back at you. You stare up at him desperately. “Something’s come up and I need to go,” he swallows. 

 

“What has? Do you need me to come with you? I”-

 

He shakes his head. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he assures you, “I just need to go”-

 

 _“But”-_ you utter, still confused. 

 

Mycroft kisses you on the cheek impulsively to quieten you, “I’ll see you soon,” he murmurs. Then, just like that, he’s turning and hurrying off down the street. 

 

You stare after him. Your fingers go up to scrape against where he’d just kissed you as you do so.


	5. Love in the Drug Den

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mycroft starts acting strange you follow him, which leads to interesting consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,   
> thanks as ever for all your support! :)  
> I hope you enjoy this. :)

_What happened last night?_ You text Mycroft first thing that morning. You’d barely gotten any sleep wondering. 

 

You get a phone call from him ten minutes later. “Sherlock went missing for a few hours,” is the first thing he tells you. 

 

“Oh my God! Is he okay?”

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh, “Yes,” he breathes. He sounds a little terse, “But things are a bit difficult here. I'm afraid that I won’t be able to come over today.”

 

“That’s fine,” you assure him, not knowing how your words make Mycroft suddenly long for you to beg him to come over. A storm cloud rolls across his face as he remembers everything that had happened at the party last night and the long line of boys who’d danced with you. “But Sherlock’s okay?” you check. 

 

Mycroft hums, and it sounds more like the sound of an angry bee than anything pleasant. “How was last night?” he asks suddenly. 

 

You’re a bit taken aback by the sudden change of topic, but thinking that he just wants to forget whatever’s going on with his family right now you just go along with it and say a bit unenthusiastically, “Oh, it-it was all right. I didn't have to dance again with Jasper at least.” You hesitate a moment, before you go on, “L-Listen Myc, I'm really sorry that I wasn't more honest with you about what the party was really about”-

 

“It’s fine,” he says shortly. 

 

“You’re sure?” you question him, a little unable to believe it, “You seemed really annoyed about it last night.” 

 

Mycroft doesn’t say anything for a minute. All you can hear is his breathing on the line. “Yes, I'm sure," he says finally, "You and this Jasper, y-you've known each other a long time?” he asks, and for some reason you picture him looking thoughtfully down, whilst he rubs circles into a dusty surface with his finger. 

 

“Yeah, since we were about four,” you breathe softly, before you abruptly find yourself blurting out, “I see you met Libby.”

 

“Hmm?” Mycroft responds, his brow furrowing as he feels both surprised and confused.

 

You swallow. “I-I saw you talking to her when you were standing by the wall last night.”

 

Mycroft thinks about that for a moment. “Oh,” he says, his face clearing, “You mean the blond girl?”

 

“Y-Yeah,” you say, feeling strangely relieved about the rather dismissive way he’d said such a thing. 

 

“I didn't even know it was her,” Mycroft tells you more pleasantly. You let out a bit of a shaky laugh. “Listen F/N, I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you soon okay?”

 

“Okay,” you breathe, and it takes you a moment to realize that you’re still waiting for him to say something even though he’s already clicked off. You lower your phone with a sigh, thinking hard and feeling confused about what you’d felt when Mycroft had basically rejected Libby’s appearance in his life. You swallow. You’d probably just felt like that because Mycroft’s your friend and the thought of him being close friends with anyone else makes you feel a little uneasy. You don’t want to lose him after all. Yes, that’s it you think, but even as you close the conversation in your mind you don’t feel quite convinced. 

 

*

 

Mycroft acts odd over the next couple of days. He only comes over to your house once, and that’s just to talk to your father. You try not to feel offended, but you spend the rest of the evening sulking in your room nonetheless. At school he seems oddly quiet and distant. He looks tired too. 

 

Then, when he does finally come around to see you one night, almost a week later, he keeps checking his phone. You’re almost tempted to ask if he has somewhere he’d rather be, but you don’t. You just purse your lips instead. 

 

The next time he checks his phone however his eyes widen and his lips part. “I-I’ve got to go,” he says, jerking up from where he’s been lying on his side on your bed and hurriedly making to stand up. 

 

You swing upwards concernedly, “Is everything all right?”

 

He jerks his head forwards, “Y-Yeah, I’ll-I’ll see you soon.”

 

You nod but frown as soon as he darts out of your room. You've heard that line before and you’re not willing to just let him go off to wherever only for him to carry on ignoring you some more. You give him another moment’s head start, whilst you stuff your feet into a pair of trainers. You follow him 

 

The street’s fairly dark, but you still keep some distance, hanging back as Mycroft passes underneath a street light, before you scurry rat-like after him. 

 

He takes you back across the river and you wonder for a moment if he’s simply just going home, and if maybe you've just made a knee-jerk reaction to all this, but then instead of going left down one street he swings right. You dart after him, shivering a little as the cold, autumn breeze swirls around you. You frown as he continues his mission to God knows where. You don’t know much about this part of town, but you do know that it’s certainly a more… _undesirable_ area. Though of course even if you hadn’t you would have probably been able to tell by the occasional sound of police sirens, the drunken laughter and the rubbish, along with the odd needle and dog mess that’s strewn about. You can’t fathom why Mycroft would be coming down here. Perhaps he knows someone in this area that you don’t know about? You can’t imagine it though. You hurry on, getting more breathless, whilst you keep your cover as Mycroft just marches on, walking swiftly with a perfectly straight back. You know that despite this façade he’s scared too, for every now and again he looks around nervously and seems to check at something on his phone. You stop and hang back even more when he does this, your breath catching in your throat. 

 

Finally he slows down, checks something on his phone again and nods, before he slips his phone back into his pocket and darts left into a tall, decrepit looking building whose door swings open. You stop and stare for a moment, completely baffled by this new development. Then, not seeing that you have any choice you hurry forwards, do a little hop over another needle that’s just lying carelessly on the street and move into the building. 

 

You stop dead as soon as you do for the overwhelming smell of cat urine along with something sweet hits your nose. You scrunch up your face and wrinkle your nose, lifting your arm to cover up your mouth, which has the sudden urge to vomit as you look around. Broken glass lies shattered on the concrete floor, whilst the wind swirls in through an open door that leads into the alleyway at the back. A rickety wooden staircase with ragged holes on some of the steps and which is strewn with cobwebs and grime lays off to the left, leading up to the next floor. Mycroft doesn’t seem to be anywhere close by, so you figure that he’s probably gone up. Your skin prickles uncomfortably as you go towards the stairs. You lift your foot up and tentatively place it on the first step. It creaks and you grimace, your heart jumping as you listen for a sound. Nothing comes running at you and your foot doesn’t plunge through the step though so you carry on moving upwards apprehensively. You’re about halfway up when you hear a banging sound that makes you jump. Your hand jerks to the pathetic excuse for a handrail and the chips of wood nearly tear it open. You wince and pull your hand away. The noise sounded like it had come from downstairs, so you duck down and take a quick peek through the gap between the rail and the stairs. You breathe a sigh of relief as soon as you do so. It looks like it was just the alleyway door getting blown shut in the wind. You swallow. You can live with that. 

 

You finish your ascent and step out onto a small landing that leads to a thin, rickety narrow corridor that’s lined with doors. It has a window at the far end and the breeze rattles it. You swallow and inch forwards, trying not to make a sound against the wooden floor. Each one of the doors is ajar, and you stop cautiously at each one, peeking in. You see drug addict after drug addict, some sprawled out, others muttering and crawling across the floor, each one making you jerk back and hope that no one will notice you until-

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you breathe as you peep in at a door that’s three-quarters of the way down the corridor. 

 

Mycroft jumps and staggers into a standing position off the camp bed he’s been sitting on. Sherlock lies sprawled across it. Mycroft wipes his hands on his jeans and stares at you. “F/N, what are you doing here?” he questions, amazed. 

 

“What are _you_ doing here more like?” You correct, stepping forwards. Your eyes slip down to Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft swallows and eyes the door nervously, before he comes across and pulls you around until you’re both just staring down at Sherlock’s sleeping face. “The other day, when he went missing,” Mycroft tells you, “I looked everywhere for him, everywhere I could think he might be, whilst Mummy stayed at home, phoned around and finally called the hospital just as I arrived home.” You swallow. “They told her that Sherlock was there and he’d been spotted arguing with another boy, before he’d slumped suddenly onto the ground. He’d taken something.” Mycroft pauses. _“Drugs._ The witness who'd seen the whole thing waited for the other boy to leave and then took him to the hospital.” You move instinctively closer to Mycroft, clutching at his arm. He swallows and nods. You squeeze him, before you let go. He clears his throat. “Mummy and I went there. The drugs, thank God, hadn’t done any lasting damage. The hospital was merely keeping him in overnight for observations, until they could be sure that his system was clear. When he woke up and came to properly he reassured Mummy by telling her that he’d just been curious, and that he wouldn't do it again”- Mycroft purses his lips. 

 

“But”- you say, looking at Sherlock. 

 

“Exactly,” Mycroft agrees, “I wasn't so sure. I had a feeling that he wasn't telling the truth and that he’d do it again. The next day when he came home I managed to get it out of him that the boy he’d been arguing with was Mickey Ross, but that it hadn’t been Ross who he’d got the drug from. He refused to tell me any more,” Mycroft says, looking aggrieved. “That night he stayed at home, but the following day he snuck out. I followed him to this place, and I, on and off for the past week have found myself sitting here, whilst whatever it is slowly works its way through his system. He won’t tell me why he’s started this. Tonight, when I was at your house, I saw that Sherlock had left for this area on my phone,” he pauses, he doesn’t want to say that Mummy had forced him to go around to yours that night, that she’d noticed he hadn’t been around to see you, that she’d told him that Sherlock would be all right under her watch and that somehow Sherlock had obviously managed to slip away. 

 

His pause allows you to think about what he’s just said. “Hang on,” you realize, “You said that you saw that Sherlock had left for this area on your phone?” 

 

Mycroft looks sheepish. “The other day, when I came to your house to see your father”-

 

“You got him to give you a tracking device that you could put into Sherlock’s phone didn't you?” Mycroft nods, avoiding your eyes. “Why didn't you just tell me what was going on?” you huff out, getting angry. 

 

He shifts his position. He’s reluctant to say that after Sherlock had done what he had the first time, and when it had looked like he wouldn't adhere from doing so again in the future, it had made him feel as if any hope he’d ever had of going out with you had turned into dust. Especially, when, in a state of utter desperation, he’d realized that the only way he could properly keep an eye on his brother would be through enlisting your father’s help. After all he couldn't just run the risk of not taking advantage of the equipment that he knew was so close and Sherlock turning up dead. “I didn't want to tell your father,” he finally confesses, “It was…embarrassing, having to ask him for help. I felt sure that he was bound to think less of me and that it would tarry any progress I’d made in his eyes. He refused to help at first”-

 

_“What?”_ you exclaim, your hands fisting by your side.

 

Mycroft raises his own to placate you, “But then he said that as long as I promised to work really hard for him in the future to pay him back then I”-

 

You huff out a breath, “I can’t believe he”-

 

“No F/N,” Mycroft says, urging you to calm down as he grabs hold of your arms, “He was right, right to do that. I was asking him to abuse the system after all, which now I, when I think about it, should never have asked him to do.”

 

You scowl and fold your arms, still not satisfied by the way that your father’s trapped Mycroft into working for him in the future and left no room for anything different. You move away from him and pace back and forth, your head bowed. 

 

Mycroft looks around uneasily as the wooden floor begins to creak, “Please, please,” he urges you, “Now that I’ve explained everything you have to go home.” He steps forwards, wringing his hands. 

 

“I still don’t get why you didn't tell me,” you say, turning back to him and putting your hands on your hips. 

 

Mycroft looks at you, knowing as he does so that he can’t fully explain the reason. Still, you look at him, urging him to give you whatever he can. Finally, when your maddening eyes refuse to leave his, he huffs out a breath, steps forwards and waves his hands, “I was embarrassed, all right? _Too_ embarrassed”-

 

“But to tell my father and not me. I'm supposed to be your best friend,” you fold your arms, hugging them to your chest and looking a little teary. 

 

Mycroft steps closer to you. “Have you not been listening to a word I said? I only did that because I wanted his help.” You nod and try and get yourself back under control. “I thought you’d think less of me, thought that it would remind you of how we’re…” he trails off. 

 

_“What?”_ you look at him. 

 

He swallows and shifts his position, “Well, of how we’re different.”

 

_“Oh,”_ you say, clearly disappointed. 

 

“No,” he says, stepping forwards so that he’s right in front of you, his hand coming up to loosely clutch at your arm, “F/N, I don’t mean…I just, I just didn't tell you because I thought that if I did you wouldn't want to be my friend any more. I thought you’d just see the boy whose got a junkie brother and that you’d just see him instead of me.” His eyes are shiny with desperation as you look at him. 

 

“I would have understood,” you say, your voice a little thick, “I wouldn't have turned my back on you just because of that. In fact”-you hiccup-“In fact it would have been better than not knowing anything and wondering if you’d just…gone off me or something.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, pulling you in for a brief hug, “I should have trusted you more. I'm sorry, but go home now,” he murmurs, his soft breath tickling against your ear. 

 

You shake your head against him and pull back. “No,” you tell him, wiping at your eyes, “I’ll stay, I want to stay”-

 

“You _can’t,”_ Mycroft’s voice overrides yours, “Your parents”-

 

“Won’t notice, and even if they do then I’ll sort it. I won’t mention you.”

 

“I”-

 

“How many times,” you begin, more determinedly, “Have you been here on your own in the past week? Looking after your brother?”

 

Mycroft shifts his position and looks away at the dusty floor instead of at you. “A lot,” he murmurs. 

 

“Exactly,” you say, sitting down with a thump on the camp bed beside Sherlock, “But that ends tonight. You won’t have to do this on your own any more.”

 

Mycroft bites at his lip anxiously. “You don’t understand,” he says, “There are all manner of…” he waves his hands, struggling to find the right words, “This is no place for a girl”- 

 

_“Or_ for a boy,” you cut him off firmly. 

 

He huffs out a breath and comes to sit beside you with a resigned thump. 

 

A beat passes between you, before you smile at one another. 

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft murmurs sincerely. 

 

“No problem,” you breathe. “You might as well go to sleep,” you tell him.

 

“Don’t be daft,” Mycroft snorts. He shifts his hands from where they've been dangling over his knees and looks at you incredulously. 

 

“I'm only being as daft as you are by refusing,” you retort. Mycroft frowns. “You look really tired,” you say in a softer fashion, touching at his arm gently, “And now that I'm here and able to keep an eye on Sherlock for you it’s really pointless for you to stay up too.”

 

“But”- Mycroft says warily, looking at the door. 

 

“I’ll wake you if I hear anything alarming,” you tell him, “Besides,” you add with a shrug, “You might not be able to sleep much anyway. This camp bed’s bloody uncomfortable.”

 

Mycroft smiles. “Only if you’re sure,” he says, “And only if you promise me that you’ll wake me if you hear anyone coming this way.”

 

You nod. 

 

Mycroft eyes you calculatingly for another moment, before he shuffles back on the camp bed beside his brother and lies down on his back. He falls asleep almost instantly. The last thing he sees is you sitting there staunchly as you keep watch. 

 

Soft breaths fill your chest. You look around, expecting Mycroft to still be awake, but he’s already lost to sleep. You smile at the way that his hair’s unusually messy, his head’s tilted back and his mouth is wide open. His chest rises and falls with every breath. You, unable to help yourself, turn and move closer. On your hands and knees you peer down at him, your head above his. There’s something a little tense about his face, but overall, considering everything that’s gone on, he looks quite peaceful. His eyelashes scrape down towards his cheeks and his soft breaths hit your face lightly as you put the side of your cheek to his mouth. You shiver and turn your head. You let out a little breath when you realize how close together your faces suddenly are. If you moved your nose a fraction to the right then it would come into contact with his. Your eyes dart down to his lips. Your breath is frozen and afraid, crystallized in your chest. If you tilted your head and moved down ever so slightly then you could press your lips to his. Feel his breath inside your mouth and-

 

You pull back, your face puzzled. Why are you thinking about kissing Mycroft? Why in fact are you realizing for the first time how beautiful your friend is? You don’t know. All you know is that as you look at him now you see the boy who is courageous even when he is afraid, the boy who’s been risking his health for that of his brother. You see all the things you’d never noticed before. You see how thin his lips are and properly notice the marks on his face and if he were to open his eyes right now then you’d probably get lost inside them. You see hope and determination. You see _Mycroft._

 

You let out a little breath. Slowly you lean carefully forwards and gently take the curl of hair that hangs down Mycroft’s forehead in between your finger and thumb. You begin to rub at it softly, the curve of your fingers scraping against his forehead as you do so. 

 

Mycroft stirs. His eyes flutter open. Your hand jerks back. _“F-F/N?”_ he mumbles sleepily when he sees your hazy figure above him. He half-attempts to get up, “What?”-

 

“Shh, it’s okay, go back to sleep,” you push him back down.

 

He looks at you with unfocused eyes. He falls asleep again, a smile on his face. 

 

You let out a breath of relief, despite the fact that it's then that you properly make sense of the feelings that have been building inside you for a while. Then that you realise why you'd felt so strange and not yourself when you'd seen Mycroft with Libby at the party. Then that you realise why you'd felt so much relief at his overall indifference to her. You're in love with Mycroft. In love with your best friend and it's both somehow wonderful and gloriously terrifying at the same time. You turn away from him and resume your post at the edge of the camp bed as you try to come to terms with what you've just realised. You look back at him. What are you supposed to do? Now that it feels like everything's changed even though so much is still the same? You're still in this drug den, and Mycroft and Sherlock are still sleeping. Should you tell Mycroft how you feel? You look back to him. He's still sleeping in the exact same position as he had been when you'd last looked at him. But suddenly he shifts ever so slightly and his hand comes to curl loosely around Sherlock's wrist. You feel a swooping sensation in your stomach. You can't tell him, not right now, not with everything that's going on with his brother. You swallow, your heart sinking, even though you know that holding off on how you feel right now is probably for the best. Besides, you think, what's to say that Mycroft feels the same? What with everything that's going on any thoughts of romance towards you are probably the last thing on his mind. You swallow again and look away. Yes, you think, he probably just looks on you as a dear friend, and you certainly don't want to do or say anything, which would rock the boat and change that. Similar thoughts rotate around your mind, but you soon feel tired, cold and restless. You look back. Mycroft and Sherlock look so wrapped up in sleep. You bite at your lip. You could just stay sitting up and keep on being cold or you could just lie down next to Mycroft, feel a bit warmer and still be in a good enough position to hear anything. You don't of course probe the part of your mind that just wants to be as close to Mycroft as you can right now too intently. It might hurt too much, considering what you've just decided, if you did. 

 

Your mind made up you carefully twist around and move down onto your side. You’re wary of disturbing the boys, but you get down without doing so and shuffle closer to Mycroft. You breathe him in. He smells of something tangy, cheap cologne, which you hadn’t even noticed him wearing before-you can’t know that his mother had given it to him as a gift that night, before she’d forced him around to yours-and the faintest trace of tea. There’s something comforting about the mix. You find yourself closing your eyes as you nestle closer. It’s not long, despite your attempts not to, before you fall asleep. 

 

*

 

You get woken up that morning by a shoe hitting your forehead. 

 

“Oof,” you mutter, raising a hand to your head as the shoe goes spinning off the camp bed onto the floor. 

 

You jerk back a moment later as you realize several things simultaneously, namely that before you’d moved your hand it had been curled around Mycroft’s waist all night, that you've been sleeping with your head nestled in the gap between Mycroft’s neck and collarbone, his chin has been on your head and his hand is on your waist, his body pressed against yours. 

 

He groans at your movement and wakes, blinking in surprise and letting go of you just as hurriedly. 

 

You just stare at each other for a moment with slightly parted lips, neither of you saying anything. 

 

“Er”- Mycroft volunteers. 

 

“Good, you’re both awake,” comes a voice and both Mycroft and you swing upwards into a sitting position violently, grunting a little as your bodies rub roughly together, generating sparks throughout you both. 

 

Sherlock’s standing with his body half-turned towards you, whilst he smokes a cigarette. 

 

“Don’t smoke that in here,” Mycroft says, more awake, “We could all go up in”- Sherlock raises a hand to stop him. Mycroft scowls. “Do you really want Mummy knowing that you smoke too? You’re becoming quite the reprobate.”

 

“That’s a big word,” Sherlock comments, “Did you learn it from your girlfriend?”

 

“You can pick on us all you like,” Mycroft flushes, “But I'm not the one upsetting Mummy!” you place a hand on Mycroft’s arm in an attempt to soothe him. He relaxes at your touch and you both look at each other. You swallow. 

 

“No you’re not,” Sherlock announces, looking at the pair of you in disgust. Your hand jumps off Mycroft’s arm and you both look towards the youngest Holmes once more. “You’re the one running around being Mummy’s adorable little angel, getting the chance to wear suits and getting a fancy job in government lined up.” He takes a bit of a breath. “Did it ever occur to you that I might want to get out of this shit hole too?” he asks, pointing a finger to his own chest. 

 

“So this is what all this is about,” Mycroft swallows. 

 

You lean back, wishing that you were somewhere else. 

 

“Did it ever occur to you to ask F/N’s father for a job for me?” Sherlock asks. 

 

“F/N’s father has already been generous enough to offer me a job, without”- Mycroft begins, scrambling up.

 

You hold your breath. 

 

“Oh that’s right brother, just think about yourself and how you can get ahead in life! Don’t worry about me!” Sherlock retorts, flinging his cigarette towards the edge of the camp bed. It sets it alight immediately, but Sherlock turns around and leaves the room without a care. 

 

_“Sherlock!”_ Mycroft calls after his brother, darting towards the fire and almost cupping it with his hands. 

 

“Here,” you say, tugging your top off as you stand up yourself, before you toss it towards him. 

 

Mycroft catches it and lets out a bit of a squeak when he sees you standing there in your bra and trousers. His eyes dart to your chest and then back to the fire, which he suffocates with your top, whilst he clears his throat a lot. 

 

Once it’s extinguished he takes a moment just to let out a couple of relieved breaths. 

 

You watch as he crouches there with his head bowed. 

 

He looks at you, straightens up. “Well,” he murmurs, nodding at you, “We can’t exactly have you going out there like that.”

 

“Guess not,” you say, feeling suddenly self-conscious and folding your arms across your chest. 

 

He swallows, before he looks down and begins to unbutton his shirt. 

 

You open your mouth; about to ask what he’s doing, but the question dies on your lips when his chest begins to be revealed. It’s covered in a thin layer of hair, and that’s the moment you realize that Mycroft’s practically a man now and he’s not, in any sense of the word, a boy any more. 

 

“Here,” he says, passing you his shirt a little self-consciously. 

 

You swallow, break out of your trance and take it from him. The outside of it feels cool and soft, but the inside of it is still warm from his skin. His scent is all over it. You swallow again and begin to button it up hurriedly. The fire might no longer be in the room, but it's definitely on your face. 

 

Mycroft folds his arms in a feeble attempt to cover himself up. He clears his throat when he realizes that he’s watching the progress of your skin as it disappears beneath his shirt. He shifts his position. “Sorry about my brother,” he says gruffly, “I had no idea that he was doing all those silly things out of mere jealousy.”

 

“It’s okay,” you say, coming to the last of the buttons and only glancing at him quickly, before you look away again.

 

He nods, swallows and begins to lead you out of the room, which looks even more decrepit in daylight. 

 

“Careful on the stairs,” he says, after you've both crossed the landing. 

 

You nod. 

 

A group of young men sit to the left of the main door, drinking and smoking spliffs if the smell’s anything to go by. They stop talking and jeer and chuckle when Mycroft and you walk out of there. You bow your head, feeling sheepish. Mycroft’s ears turn red and he flushes. It’s clear to him what the men think you've been doing. He grabs at your hand and pulls you out of there. He doesn’t let you go until you’re back in more respectable territory. 

 

“I would walk you home,” Mycroft says, slowing down as you get closer to his house, “But I don’t think that my presence”- he gestures to his bare chest-“Would be appreciated.”

 

You nod, knowing that he’s probably right. You've been getting some peculiar looks as it is-horrified stares from mothers, sniggers from other teenagers and jeers from men. 

 

Mycroft swallows. “I-I'm sorry again about Sherlock,” he shifts his position as you come to a stop outside his house, “What he said about us was”- he breaks off. 

 

“Just him being an idiot?” you ask when you can’t think of anything better, despite the fact that saying it makes your heart break. 

 

“Yes,” he says, “Just him being an idiot.”

 

You try to smile, but there’s this weird uncertain, sad kind of feeling between you both now and you don’t know what to do with it. 

 

Mycroft shifts his position and looks up at the house, “I-I guess I better go.”

 

“Yeah,” you say, running a hand back through your hair, before you make up your mind, “Listen I”-

 

“Mykie why aren't you wearing a shirt?” comes a loud voice. 

 

Mycroft and you both flinch and look around. His mother’s leaning out of one of the upstairs windows. 

 

_“Ah,”_ she says prominently when she sees you standing there wearing Mycroft’s shirt, “Hello F/N.” 

 

Mycroft mutters a goodbye to you and hurries inside. He enters just as Mummy comes downstairs. She throws him a top, which he pulls on hurriedly and leads him into the kitchen. 

 

“So that’s why you didn't come home last night,” she says, going over by the kitchen table, before she turns to face him. 

 

“It’s not what you think,” Mycroft protests, “I”-

 

“So F/N just happened to lose her top did she?”-

 

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Mycroft blurts out. Mummy looks at him suspiciously. “There was an accident, a-and F/N lost her top because of it. I was trying to be a gentleman.”

 

“I'm not sure if I want to know what this accident was,” Mummy says, putting her finger to her lip. 

 

_“Mummy!”_ Mycroft splutters, “Honestly I swear”-

 

She raises a hand. “As long as you’re being careful I don’t mind. But if you’re going to be having any more sleepovers then at least call me next time, especially if you’re going to lie and make your brother cover for you”-

 

_“What?”_ Mycroft exclaims, completely confused. 

 

“Your brother texted me and said that the pair of you were staying at F/N’s house, something, which is clearly untrue going by her lack of clothes, so wherever you stayed last night”-

 

“What time did Sherlock text you?” 

 

“About ten,” she shrugs. 

 

Mycroft frowns, feeling annoyed. Ten would have been before he’d even found Sherlock in the drug house, so Sherlock must have planned to get high and somehow known that Mycroft would find him. 

 

“Everything all right?” Mummy asks. 

 

Mycroft grunts and turns around. 

 

“Whatever the case I hope F/N and you did whatever you did away from your brother,” Mummy calls after him. 

 

Mycroft stops, sighs, but does not turn back around. Instead he just goes to Sherlock’s room. 

 

“Did you really think that I wouldn't notice the tracking device?” is the first thing his brother asks when he enters the room, even though he’s at his desk by the window with his back turned to him, whilst he does another experiment with his chemicals. 

 

Mycroft swallows and thinks upon it. “I’ll make you a deal then brother,” he announces. Sherlock stops what he’s doing and half-turns in his chair. “If you’re going to keep up with this silliness then I’ll look after you and make sure that you don’t choke on your own vomit if you keep the tracking device in your phone, make a list of everything that you've taken and leave it somewhere I can find, just in case anything should go wrong. You can tell Mummy what you like about it, but keep F/N out of whatever you tell her. She already thinks…” Mycroft trails off. “Do we have a deal?” he asks, clearing his throat. 

 

Sherlock thinks about him for a moment, looks at him and nods. 

 

“Good,” Mycroft breathes. 

 

“I don’t know why you don’t just tell her you fancy her,” Sherlock says, “It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”

 

Mycroft frowns. He’s always been a bit sensitive about the size of his nose. Then, without another word, he turns around and exits his brother’s bedroom. 

 

*

 

That Monday is a bad one. You’d been thankful that neither Mycroft nor you had run into Mickey Ross or Andy Jenkins on your way back home from the drug den, but it turns out that the people who had spotted you from school, girls who had never paid you much attention before and who you’d hoped might leave you alone for the rest of your school education, have decided to make one last attempt at popularity. 

 

Photos of a bare-chested Mycroft and you wearing his shirt fill the school. Mycroft and you take down as much of them as you can, but they seem to be up again at an alarmingly fast rate and everywhere you go people look at you in disgust and mock you. Mycroft and you are called up to explain yourselves in front of the Deputy Head-a balding, weary man who doesn’t seem to believe either of you when you both try and impress upon him that it’s not what it looks like. Instead he tells you that this isn't how children from the school are expected to behave and that if an incident like this occurs again then your parents will have to be called in. He also advises that you both to go to the school nurse to be educated on sex.

 

You’re fuming. In fact the only silver lining that you can think of is that what with you going to this school it’s unlikely that your parents will hear about it. If this had happened at the private school that your mother had wanted to send you to then she would have probably been storming in and confronting you right at that moment. 

 

“It’s not us who need to be educated. If he could just open his eyes and look at the drug problem that can be found in town,” you huff, storming outside for lunch. 

 

“This whole thing is my fault,” Mycroft says, hurrying after you, “If I’d just been more honest with you about what was going on then”-

 

You sit down on one of the benches under the tin canopy with a thump. Mycroft follows suit. “I would have still gone there with you”-

 

“No you wouldn't have,” Mycroft says, and you turn your attention away from where you've been sliding your transparent, plastic lunch box out onto your lap from your bag and back to him, “I wouldn't have let you, and you’re not to go there again. If this is what will happen each time then it’s not”-

 

“It _is_ worth it, and I _will_ be going again,” you tell him fiercely. Mycroft looks at you. “I can take a spare top with me just in case something happens. I'm not leaving you alone. I said I’d be there and I will.” 

 

Mycroft stares at you for a moment and then, resigned to it; he slumps a little and nods. You smile. “In any case,” he muses, “I suppose one of two things will happen now. Sherlock will either stop this madness, which will hopefully be the case, or we’ll finish school and hopefully never have to deal with these idiots again. Perhaps even if we do we’ll be too busy working for your father to care.”

 

You force a smile at him, but you quickly look down at your sandwiches. As horrible as school is the idea of it coming to a natural end and of Mycroft and you both working for your father isn't something that you’re looking forward to.


	6. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> School comes to an end and Mycroft and you start your new jobs with possibly devastating consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you for all your support! :) 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Over the course of the next year or so, Mycroft-who gets significantly thinner through more exercise and healthy eating-continues to be there for Sherlock, and you continue to be there for Mycroft. Some of your favourite moments start to come from being up in the middle of the night at the drug den, talking softly with Mycroft, whilst Sherlock lies behind you and the moon’s light filters in through the cracked, broken window.

 

The world continues to turn, and finally, after your final ever secondary school exam, Mycroft and you go back to yours, accompanied by Sherlock.

 

You may be eighteen now and Sherlock may be fifteen, but the pair of you still go to jump on your bed without abandon. After much rolling of his eyes and coaxing from you [“Mycroft we've finished our exams! School’s out forever!”] Mycroft joins you. 

 

Laughter soon leaves all of your mouths. 

 

“Woo!” you cry amidst Sherlock’s deep baritone laughs and Mycroft’s soft chuckles. 

 

 _“F/N!”_ a stern voice calls, and you all stop what you’re doing at once to see that your mother’s standing by the door. 

 

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. 

 

 _“Mrs. L/N,”_ Mycroft mutters, before he steps off the bed at once and clears his throat. “Come Sherlock,” he says. Sherlock jumps onto the carpet.

 

“Honestly you’re eighteen now,” your mother says, looking at you in exasperation, before she looks at Mycroft. “And you should know better too young man. You’ll be starting your work with us soon and don’t you forget it.”

 

“Sorry,” Mycroft says at the same time you say, “For God’s sake Mother do you have to make him feel bad just to get what you want?”

 

Sensing impending danger Mycroft and Sherlock scurry out of the room.

 

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me young lady,” your mother says, stepping forwards and pointing a finger at you, “God knows your Father and I have indulged your friendship with that boy for far too long, simply because we were happy that you’d made a friend, but it’s about time you both started acting your age, and _you,_ in particular young lady, need to start honouring the class you’re from.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“That means your focus should, right now, not be on that boy’s friendship, but on the new career you’re about to embark on. Any other free time you have should be spent on looking for a prospective husband,” she huffs, before she stalks out without another word. 

 

You sigh and fall down onto your bed. You get out your phone and send a text to Mycroft: _Honestly, you’d think with the way that my mother talks sometimes we were royalty._

 

 **She’s only looking out for you F/N,** Mycroft sends a moment later, **Besides she was right. It wasn't very mature for us to be jumping around on the bed like that.**

 

You let out an annoyed breath. You get a feeling that everything that comes next will be about getting the future sorted for a while. You roll onto your other side and close your eyes. You don’t want it to be the future yet. 

 

*

 

The future doesn’t give a damn about your moping and comes anyway. 

 

The following week you find yourself sitting behind your father’s large desk in the mansion, going through the forms with the new recruits and telling them what they’ll need to do. 

 

Mycroft’s there in his own grey suit at last. His mother had bought it for him and he’d been so excited. It’s only a plain, basic one, but he’d brought it around to your house to show it off to you, folding it back neatly into a plastic bag once he had. He’s one of three new people there and you can feel that he’s just as excited now as he was when he’d first shown you the suit. You can feel his buzzing energy as you talk. Feel it every time he fidgets, every time he anxiously twists his watch around his wrist, and feel it every time he looks at you, begging you with those baby blue eyes of his to look at him. You can tell that he’s a little boy thinking that he’s joining the world of James Bond. You can tell that he’s naïve despite his serious intelligence and you hate it. The world of your father-this world that Mycroft’s almost been blackmailed into because of his brother-is going to crush him. You can’t do anything about it, but it doesn’t stop you from not wanting to give him his forms.

 

Your fingers brush against each other’s as he takes them from you, and you can feel his eyes on you, looking at you imploringly. He must be wondering about your strange behaviour and why you can barely look at him. You give him a bit of a forced smile, before you stride out of the room. 

 

Once you’re out you just take a moment to lean against the brown wooden door and breathe, closing your eyes as you do so. Inhale. Exhale. You can do this. You can get through this and all the other days in the future where you’re going to be left worrying about Mycroft. 

 

“F/N?” a voice comes. You open your eyes, expecting, for some odd reason to see Mycroft there even though he’s behind you. It’s your father, looking as smart and as authoritative as ever as he strides towards you. He adjusts the cuffs of his white shirt. “I trust everything is going well?”

 

“Yes Father.” 

 

“Good, good,” your father says, before he looks around as if there might be someone nearby who can help him talk to you properly. Its always been this way between him and you, for as long as you can remember. He looks back at you, as if he’s almost surprised that you’re still there. “Getting them all fired up and ready to go are you?”

 

You try not to grimace and push the forced smile back onto your face. “Yes Father.”

 

“Good, we need to hit the ground running,” he gets out, before he claps you hard on the shoulder. Your knees nearly buckle. He lets go and turns around as if some invisible signal has dismissed him from your presence. 

 

You swallow, before you turn back around and enter the room to see how the new recruits are doing. 

 

Mycroft looks around at you as you enter and throws you a smile. He’s the only one who does. You give him a tight one in return and go and sit behind your father’s desk. 

 

Prunella-a twenty-year-old brown haired girl who’s a genius from Kent-adjusts her glasses, before she looks up at you. Her form's on a clipboard that's resting against her knees. She goes on to ask you a question that sounds more like an algebraic one than anything relating to the form. You sigh a bit and get up. 

 

Tom-a bow tie wearing, twenty-six year-old from Devon, who is an IT whiz-is the first to finish filling in his details on the form. He puts his pen back into his brown briefcase and nods at you as he comes across to hand it in. 

 

“You’ll be contacted in due course with the exact details of where you’ll be placed,” you tell him, before you add a stern attachment. “Remember, not a word to any of your family and friends as to where you really work. You’ll be out, before you can even tell them anything interesting if you do.”

 

Tom raises his eyebrows a fraction and nods. 

 

You try not to fidget. It’s important that they know these things and know, _ultimately,_ who’s in control, but you never like giving orders. It just reminds you of your father. 

 

Mycroft’s pen had paused against his paper as you’d spoken. He hadn’t been able to help but listen to your words. You’d said them with such tenacity and drive that it had made him swallow and feel oddly turned on. He’d adjusted the clipboard on his knees and folded his legs more persistently. Now however, as Tom walks out of the room and you lean back in your chair, watching him go, Mycroft returns to filling in his own form. 

 

Quarter-of-an-hour passes and your eyes go between Mycroft and Prunella. Prunella is on the last page, but Mycroft seems to be idly turning back through his form, as if he’s checking the answers he’s given even though there’s no test. You frown. If he’s finished then why doesn’t he just get up and leave? Why would any one want to stay in this place longer than they have to? Prunella makes the last marks on her paper and gets up with a clearing of her throat, before she hands them in to you. You repeat what you’d said to Tom, before she leaves. Your eyes go to Mycroft. His eyes dart to you a couple of times, but he still insists on rooting through his form like a wild pig that's scavenging on the ground for berries. Your brow furrows, whilst your hand idly curls around the paperweight that’s on your father’s desk. You find that your guard’s lowering somewhat now it’s just Mycroft and you. “Is everything all right?” you ask. 

 

“Actually,” he says, his eyes going to you, your hand leaves the paperweight, “I finished the form a while ago.”

 

 _“Oh,”_ you say, your eyes going to the door. There’s no sign that you’ll be imminently disturbed. You want to speak freely, and as you usually would with him. You swallow, before, making your mind up, you get up and go and sit on his left hand side, in the chair that Tom had just vacated. “Did you want me for anything else then?” you ask, clutching at his knee briefly. 

 

He nods. “Yes, in a way,” he says, before he swings around to face you. His leg brushes against yours and you both start a little. Mycroft swallows, “I wanted to make sure that everything was all right with you?”

 

“With me?” you exclaim. 

 

He nods. He’s got this odd sort of desperate look upon his face. “You were acting a bit odd earlier”-your hand goes to fidget with your hair-“You barely looked at me.” He bites at his lip. “Everything’s okay for me to be working with your father isn't it? I know it’s a little strange now that it’s becoming a reality and what with us being friends and all, but”-

 

“No,” you shake your head, forcing a smile onto your face, “Everything’s fine.” Mycroft looks at you intently with his brow furrowed. He doesn’t believe you, you can tell. You swallow, fidgeting with your hair. “I guess I was just trying to be professional," you try and excuse yourself.

 

Mycroft smiles, “That was _some_ warning you gave.”

 

“Yeah,” you chuckle a little, looking down as your hands go to your knees. 

 

Mycroft realizes that this would be the perfect time to kiss you on the cheek, to reassure you and to stop the smile disappearing from your face, to perhaps even-

 

Your eyes go to him again. You give him a bit of a shy smile and swallow, before your face becomes more determined. “So, I guess if you’re finished you better leave. Father will be expecting me to give him a report.”

 

“Of course,” Mycroft starts, moving forwards in his chair. 

 

You pick the form and clipboard off his lap and make to take them to the desk, but-

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft utters as his hand comes to tighten around your wrist. 

 

“Yes?” you say, and your heart skips a beat as you do so.

 

“You haven’t given me the warning,” he says. Your pulse jumps. You wonder if he can feel it. 

 

Your mouth opens and closes, “I-I”-

 

The door creaks open. Your hand jerks back at the same time that your father walks in. Mycroft stands up with a start and adjusts his jacket. He clears his throat. 

 

“Right, I’ll see you then F/N,” he says.

 

“Yeah, bye,” you say faintly, looking at your father and not him. But you can tell from your father’s dark eyes that the damage has already been done and that if Father had ever suspected before then he definitely knows now about how you feel for Mycroft. 

 

You don’t realize how great your punishment will be until a month later.

 

*

 

You’re coming out of the kitchen when you hear Prunella and Clara [Prunella’s mentor] talking about it as they cross the hallway towards the door. They've just come from seeing your father about something.

 

“…you know what? I thought I wanted to go, but now I'm glad, _glad_ that I haven’t been chosen,” Prunella says in a haughty voice.

 

“I told you, you would be,” Clara says, her voice of maturity drifting across the hall, though suddenly her brow furrows. “I have to say though that it’s most unusual for a new recruit to be chosen, most unusual indeed”-

 

“Clara, Prunella, wait,” you say a little breathlessly as you race up to them. You stop in front of them. “I couldn't help but hear what you were saying. What do you mean that a new recruit has been chosen? For what? Who’s been chosen?” Clara and Prunella look at each other with raised eyebrows. 

 

“I thought you would have known,” Clara says, looking at you in between the frame of her dark hair. You shake your head. Your lips part. “Mycroft’s been chosen for Operation Sandstone.”

 

“Operation _Sandstone!”_ you gasp. Clara nods. You turn without another word and race upstairs to your father’s study, your hand swiping at the banister as you go. 

 

You burst into the room with barely a knock. 

 

“F/N, what on earth”- your father says from behind his desk, turning away from your mother who stands beside him. 

 

“Why have you put Mycroft on Operation Sandstone? New recruits don’t usually”-

 

“We thought it would be a good test for him,” Father says, standing up.

 

“I thought you were putting him on analysing material? Not out on the field,” you pant, looking breathlessly between them. Your father and mother exchange a significant look. _“Oh,”_ you say, straightening up, “I get what this is. This is the both of you trying to keep us apart because you think that there’s something going on. Well there isn't. We’re just friends and we've always just been”-

 

“Keep your voice down,” your father protests, stepping around his desk. 

 

“The point is F/N dear, the pair of you have gotten a lot closer than any one anticipated”- your mother begins, wringing her hands. 

 

“What your mother means,” Father says, looking at you tersely, “Is that there have been rumours”-

 

 _“Rumours?”_ you exclaim. 

 

“Don’t act surprised,” he tells you, before he jabs a finger at his desk as he goes on, “You think that the other recruits haven’t noticed? You think that _we_ haven’t noticed that whenever the boy takes a rare lunch break he goes downstairs to pick you up? You think that no one’s noticed how the two of you act around each other?”

 

“We go to lunch and we talk. So”-

 

“The point is,” Mother says, crossing the floor towards you and brushing bits of fluff off the black cardigan you’re wearing-

 

“Get off me mother,” you tell her, stepping away.

 

She frowns, but desists all the same. “Is that it’s bringing questions about the family into”-

 

“I’ve had people thinking that I’ve only employed him because he’s your fancy man! You’re bringing shame on us all because of how open you've been about the way you’re gallivanting off together, so it’s about time he proved himself”-

 

“Exactly where do you suppose that we've been gallivanting off to Father?” you ask, “You know full well that aside from being in this house and the main office I’ve”-

 

“This is not up for debate,” Father interrupts, “The point is that your mother and I have concluded that for the sake of your own welfare that boy and you would benefit from taking a break from each other. It’ll give you a chance to start acting like a proper lady and to bring back some honour to this family”-

 

“Yeah well Father _my_ point is that there is no reason for you to be concerned or to listen to idle gossip over your own daughter when it concerns my relationship with Mycroft,” you take a breath, “So, with that being said, you can call off him taking part in Operation Sandstone”-

 

“Even if I wanted to I couldn't.”

 

_“Why?”_

 

“Mycroft’s already gone. Right now he should be on a plane to Morocco.”

 

You gape. “You’re both going to get him killed! That’s what you want isn't it?” you add as your parents look at one another, before you let out an annoyed sound, whirl around and race to your room. 

 

 _“F/N!”_ you hear your mother calling after you, but you ignore her. 

 

There’s no time now for anything other than to pack and grab your passport, before racing to the airport because you know one thing: Mycroft may be keen, but he isn't cut out for fieldwork, _especially_ not this. 

 

There’s another surprise for you on your bed however, an envelope with your name on, spelt in what you recognize as Mycroft’s tidiest handwriting. You pick it up and rip the letter out. 

 

 **F/N,** it says, **I was hoping to see you, before I went but your father informed me that you weren’t in the house today** -You scowl, damn your lying father and damn your mother for making you do chores with Hettie all day- **You might find out the exact details from your father, but I’ve been posted abroad. As a consequence I probably won’t see you for a while. What I have to do sounds a little challenging, but I know that if you were here you’d be wishing me luck and telling me that I'm capable** -“No, I’d be telling you not to go and that you’re an idiot,” you snarl, whilst your heart thrums with anxiety- **I hope that everything goes all right for you in my absence. I leave you the fondest of wishes. Mycroft.**

 

You make a sound of irritation, before you change into black combat trousers that will be easy to run in if you need to, a thin white t-shirt and a black jacket that has many zipped pockets to it. You stuff Mycroft’s letter in your breast pocket and frantically begin to pack. 

 

“Where are you going?” your mother asks when you emerge on the landing of the second floor, fully equipped with a black rucksack on your back. 

 

“After Mycroft!” you cry, barely turning your head towards her as you rush towards the stairs. 

 

Just as you reach them there’s a great bang. You look across to see that your father has slammed open the study door. “If you leave this house then both that boy and you will be without a job,” he says as he steps out.

 

Your heart skips a beat, but your mouth reacts without a thought for the greater consequences, _“Fine!”_ you declare, “You know what sack us both! I'm sure that even if Mycroft thinks that’s a bad idea right now we’ll both be better off in the long run!” 

 

Without another look at either of them you fly downstairs and out of the house.


	7. Mycroft in Morocco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You race to Morocco to find Mycroft, but will it be too late?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all your support! :)
> 
> Enjoy! :)

The plane ride is an agonizing mix of thought, study and worry. You keep taking Mycroft’s letter out of your pocket, unfolding it, reading it and folding it and putting it back into your pocket again. When you’re not doing that you find yourself drumming your fingers against your armrest impatiently and staring out of the window, wondering where Mycroft is and what he’s doing. Has he realized that this is all just a horrid trap yet? 

 

The study part of your activities comes into the equation when your phone vibrates with a text message from your mother. You frown, expecting it to be a plea to come home or some other such nonsense, but instead it just says: _Don’t do anything stupider than what you’re already doing. Read the enclosed. I know I can’t stop you from what you’re doing, but come home safe._

 

To your surprise the enclosed consists of everything you need to know about Operation Sandstone. You’d known the basics and that Operation Sandstone was one of the most fragile and dangerous operations going on right now, but anything more than that you hadn’t been privileged to. You settle down and read. 

 

As you soak more of the information in though your brow furrows and your heart begins to pound. In the end, once you've digested everything you need to know, you put your phone aside and don’t look at it for the rest of the flight.

 

*

 

Morocco is hot, sweltering and stuffy. There are people and oddly enough goats everywhere. 

 

You walk through a busy market place where bells clang and traders with thick accents call out as they try and flog their wares. You take in the old architecture against the new and do a quick scout past the oddly futuristic office building that you’ll have to enter in the coming night, before you head to the small, but comfortable hotel that your mother had directed you to at the end of her notes. You check in under a false name-Beth Richards-and pretend to be a visiting tourist, before you go up to your room. It’s small. A nearly transparent voile curtain flutters in the breeze by the window that’s opposite the door. The little furniture that there is, is dark brown and wooden. You sit down on the uncomfortable bed that’s in the middle of the room and read through the information you have one more time, adding what you've just learnt about the area to your mind. You wait for night to fall. 

 

Once it’s dark you creep stealthily out of your room and out of the hotel, before you head towards the office block, where tonight, one of the largest amounts of laundered money, drugs and stolen goods will be distributed amongst one of the most prolific, undercover criminal gangs that the world has ever seen. It’s a huge risk for the gang, but it’s also a huge risk for anyone who interrupts them. 

 

Everything is dark and cool when you step through the automatic doors. The alarm has already been disabled, but you’d been expecting to find the building alive with people, or at the very least that there was someone on guard duty. Your skin prickles. An unmanned reception desk stands opposite you on the left. The lifts are dead ahead, but you can see a door right by them, which leads to the stairs. You take one moments thought. Your parents would be telling you to go to the stairs. Lifts can be noisy, unpredictable. You could get trapped or even find yourself with the enemy. But then again there could be snipers overlooking the stairs and waiting to shoot at you the moment you emerge. You swallow. Your gut’s telling you to go to the lifts and for once you listen to it. 

 

You come out into the basement quietly, with no fan fare, which is good because you hear voices straight away. A dull, shadowy wall stands about five steps in front of you, whilst cardboard boxes block your vision to the left. You crouch behind them, your heart thumping. 

 

Your stomach lurches when you hear a cry of pain, followed by some heavy breathing. You recognize them as coming from Mycroft’s mouth. You peer around the cardboard boxes cautiously, keen to see what on earth’s going on. You nearly exclaim in surprise as your face comes perilously close to being in a man’s backside. A revolver dangles lazily from his hand and he appears to be on standby as whoever else is in the room talks with Mycroft.

 

“Did you really think that you’d be sent out here to deal with something so big as this Holmes? Are you deluded?” comes the sneering voice of a man you recognize as Nathaniel, a twenty-five-year-old MI6 officer, whose been one of your father’s favourites since day one. It’s then that you realize your mother hasn’t been completely honest with you, if indeed she knows everything herself. Instead of letting Mycroft be killed by the enemy he’s been deliberately lured here to be killed by the people he should be able to trust. A little breath escapes you. Thankfully it goes unnoticed by the guard who is so close by. 

 

“I-I”- Mycroft gets out, before there comes a great whack and you flinch a little as you imagine a revolver hitting the side of your friends face. Mycroft lets out a yell. 

 

“Answer me!” Nathaniel orders, his voice rising up above Mycroft’s cry. Another jagged sound of pain echoes around the room. Your heart clenches. You need to know what state Mycroft’s in and whether or not he’s tied up or injured, before you do anything. That’s what your mind is telling you. It’s pointless acting until you can establish just how easy it will be to get him out of there. But you find that your body feels both keen and anxious about finding out his condition. You swallow again. 

 

You hear the sound of someone coughing and think that it might be Mycroft. You hear the shifting of feet on the cold, concrete floor. Seizing your chance you take a deep breath, before you look around the boxes. This time you inch out further around the guard. 

 

Nathaniel-blond, brutish Nathaniel with his hair slicked back, his muscular body and blue eyes-stands there over Mycroft who’s pushing himself off his back onto his knees. His ripped shirt hangs open and you can see both dirt and blood staining the hairs on his chest. Sweat pours down his bloodied cheeks. Dear God what have they done to him?

 

You watch as Mycroft pushes back his hair from his face and as he cups his hands out in front of him. Your brow furrows, but understanding dawns on your face just a moment later when he begins to cough up blood. He breathes hard, staring at the red pool of thick liquid that’s now in his hands in astonishment. He looks up and his eyes dart around. Even he, as naïve as he can sometimes be about this world, must know that unless he gets out soon he won’t be coming out of here alive. You swallow at the exact same time his eyes land on you. His blue orbs widen. In a futile attempt to save you both he launches himself into Nathaniel, head butting his stomach with a great grunt. 

 

You snatch the revolver out of the man who’s closest to you and ram it down hard on his head; before he can do anything more than half turn. 

 

He goes down on his knees with a splendid crack and crumples onto the floor. It’s then that you recognize him as Robert-another one of your father’s trusted associates. 

 

A yell of warning sounds and you look up just at the exact same time a bullet whizzes past your ear. It hits one of the cardboard boxes with a thunk and sends them shuddering. 

 

Mycroft’s on his knees clinging onto Nathaniel’s waist, his hands trying to pull the other man down. His eyes are on you anxiously, but Nathaniel remains in a staggered, upright position, his gun trained on you. With one well-timed shove he sends Mycroft sprawling back. Mycroft lets out a groan, before he pulls himself into a sitting up position. 

 

You can tell just from his face that his vision is sinking in and out of focus and that he’s weak. You hurry forwards and cover Nathaniel with your gun, determined to protect your friend at all costs. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot,” you tell him. The hand that’s holding the gun trembles. You raise your other hand to steady it. You stand with your feet apart. 

 

Mycroft blinks rapidly, before he looks at you in amazement. His mouth is open and his harsh, slightly choked breaths fill the air. 

 

Nathaniel, panting a little, says, “Not if I shoot you first.” You swallow. The gun in your hand quivers. “Don’t think I wouldn't,” Nathaniel warns, “Just because you’re the boss’s daughter. I only take my orders from him, and if you keep getting in the way then I know exactly what he’d say, despite who you are.”

 

“So do I,” you breathe, and it only pains you a little to admit it. 

 

“We have an understanding then,” Nathaniel nods, getting his gun ready with a click, before he points it at Mycroft. “Just let me do my job and I’ll be on my way.”

 

Your breaths come rapidly. “No,” you say as you step forwards.

 

To your surprise it’s Mycroft who speaks next. Mycroft who cries out, “For God’s sake just let him!” 

 

You look at him with shocked eyes, but they soon soften when you see just how desperately he’s looking at you. 

 

“My God, I do believe someone’s got a little crush,” Nathaniel jeers.

 

Your breath tightens. 

 

“I'm nothing,” Mycroft croaks, still looking at you, “You know I'm not, not compared to you. Here they’d probably call me a street rat.” He waves a hand.

 

 _“See?”_ Nathaniel comments, “Even Holmes knows he’s not worth it.”

 

You give Nathaniel a quick glare, before you look hard at Mycroft. You see the boy who had stood up for you against the bullies. You see his modest home and his caring mother. You remember the soft understanding that had formed so quickly between you. You hear the laughter. You see Mycroft on the camp bed, lying there next to his brother and remember how you’d fallen in love with him…you see it all until one memory comes back to you, piercing them all. You drawing Mycroft on your bed, whilst you’d both sung along to Aladdin. 

 

“I don’t care what your background is,” you tell him, “I love you. You’re my street rat and you’re just as important as the rest.” You move across and stand over him so that his legs are between yours and you’re blocking him from Nathaniel, who stands in front of you. Your gun directly covers his heart. “So, no Nathaniel, we don’t have an understanding.” You take a breath. “If you want to kill Mycroft”-

 

BANG!

 

You stagger backwards and just manage to pull the trigger on your own gun, before you fall down on top of Mycroft at the same time that Nathaniel crashes to the floor, his gun sliding out of his hand. 

 

“F/N? F/N?” Mycroft asks, his eyes white with fear though you can’t see them. His arms go around you as he holds you securely to him. 

 

You groan. Your vision goes in and out of focus. You try to make out where Nathaniel’s body is slumped on the floor, but it’s just a heap. You feel sick as soon as you realize what you've done and begin to retch, going down on your hands and knees. 

 

“N-No,” Mycroft utters, scrambling around and kneeling in front of you, blocking Nathaniel’s body from you. He pushes you onto your knees with his hands and holds you in place. 

 

You let out a hiss of agony, your vision swimming and your shoulder flaring with a white-hot pain. “I killed”- you begin because you have to make him understand.

 

 _“No,”_ Mycroft repeats. His shaking, trembling fingers go to your jacket, the back of which is stained with Mycroft’s blood from where you’d fallen on top of him. He pulls it off and pushes back the collar of your white t-shirt. “Oh thank God,” he breathes. 

 

“Wha”- you utter, trying to focus on him now instead of Nathaniel. 

 

“It’s just a shoulder wound,” he releases a whoosh of breath. His fingers prod at you, going to your back. “The bullet’s still inside you, but you’re going to be all right.”

 

For a moment, at him telling you that, you can almost see past the pain. Your hands go to cup at his face and your fingers scrape at the blood that’s there. “You?”-

 

 _“Yes,”_ he lets out a watery chuckle, “I'm fine, I'm fine all thanks to you.” You smile, before you frown and look down at his chest. How can he be fine with all the blood that’s there? Your head spins and you look back up at him. He brushes your hair back. “I'm fine,” he tells you, knowing what’s on your mind. “Come,” he murmurs, “We need to go.” He looks around at Nathaniel’s body. “We need to get out of here. Can you get up?”

 

You nod, but it doesn’t stop you from shrieking in pain when he helps you to your feet. 

 

“I don’t know if there’s a hospital or”- Mycroft begins. 

 

“Can’t go there,” you shake your head, “Can’t go near authorities,” you say, your voice slurring a little.

 

“But”- Mycroft protests. 

 

“Be fine,” you manage, “Have some stuff back at hotel.”

 

Mycroft hesitates, before he nods and helps guide you out of there. You’re both shuddery, trembling messes, but you both go as quickly as you can even though your head spins and Mycroft’s ragged breaths hit against your skin, his head tilted slightly as his hand on your waist keeps you upright. You hear the sound of sirens once you’re a street away, and though neither Mycroft nor you say anything both of you realize its significance. Someone has alerted the emergency services to the noise coming from the building you've just vacated. In moments time Nathaniel’s body will be found. You slump against each other for a moment. Then you hurry even more quickly back to the hotel, determined to get to it, before a manhunt is launched. 

 

Once you’re there and Mycroft has awkwardly fumbled open the door to your room you push yourself off him, flick the light on and stagger inside towards the bed. “Do you see,” you breathe wheezily, feeling both relieved and like you could cry at any given moment as the both of you slip your shoes off, “Why I didn't want to get involved? They’re all a bunch of liars and back-stabbing bastards.” You put your hands down on the bed, leaning against the edge of it despite the pain that it causes to your shoulder.

 

“Yes, I”- Mycroft breathes, and you can tell just from his voice that the walk back has taken a lot out of him too. 

 

You push yourself off the bed. Even though you feel weak and dizzy you have to take care of Mycroft. You might not have been in a situation like this before yourself, but the protocol’s and procedures that you should be following after an injury are more ingrained in your head than his. Before you can do or say anything however you feel a pair of arms going around your waist from behind you. You shiver and let out a little breath as Mycroft’s hands meet over your stomach. He buries his head into your shoulder, before he applies a kiss to it. You can feel him snuffling there as he breathes you in. “What are you doing?” you ask him finally as your fingers go up to tangle in his hair. 

 

“Thanking God we’re alive.”

 

You smile, lower your head and turn around. Your eyes meet for the briefest of moments and your fingers scrape against his shirt. “Wash all the blood off,” you tell him, looking up as your hands go to his arms. “I’ve got some disinfectant wipes and stuff that you can spray on…you were coughing up blood, did they”-

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “It was just from biting onto the side of my mouth, but I think I might have dislodged a tooth when Nathaniel hit me with the gun…” he attempts a smile. 

 

Your face blanches at the mention of Nathaniel, but then you collect yourself and say, “I’ve got mouthwash. Go and wash your face and then come back here. You can use it, before you take shower.” You sit on the bed and push him away. 

 

He looks at you worriedly, “You”-

 

“I’ve got me,” you grimace, flashing him a quick, forced smile, “Go,” you say, pointing at the en-suite, before you look down again. 

 

Mycroft swallows and taps you on the arm quickly, before he heaves himself off tiredly to the en-suite. 

 

You take a moment just to catch your breath. Your whole body feels like it’s going into shock. You bite down at your lip. You haven’t got time to go weak again now. You've got to get yourself sorted. 

 

You pull your t-shirt off, wincing as it comes into contact with your shoulder. You let out a breath as you throw it down on the bed. You force yourself onto your knees so that you can wriggle your first aid kit out of your rucksack. Just doing that is enough to exhaust you, and your wheezy breaths fill the room, even sounding over the running water as Mycroft washes his face. You sit back down onto the bed tiredly, dragging the first aid kit up by your side and flipping it open. A load of small, fiddly objects stare back up at you. You pull them all out clumsily one by one until you finally find what you’re looking for. You rip open the silver packet, which contains the disinfectant wipe and pull the cool, damp material out, spreading it open with your fingers. You apply it roughly to the circular wound that’s on your shoulder. 

 

 _“Ah!”_ you cry out in agony, before you clamp your teeth down hard onto your lip and throw down the wipe onto the floor automatically. 

 

The tap in the en-suite gets hurriedly switched off and Mycroft comes rushing out, his face only half-washed. “F/N, is everything”- he questions, only to turn his back quickly on you when he sees that you’re sitting on the bed in your bra and trousers. “I-I”-

 

You swallow, thinking hard about the situation. “C-Can you do something for me?” you ask, looking across at him. His fingers twitch and his head jerks forwards. “C-Can you disinfect my shoulder for me? I need to clean it, before I apply a bandage to it.”

 

“B-But”- Mycroft stammers.

 

“Please Mycroft,” you urge, “We've seen each other without a top on before haven’t we?” you add, your mind going back to that first night in the drug den. 

 

“Okay,” Mycroft swallows. He turns around. His eyes flick to your chest for the briefest of moments without being able to help themselves. You blush. But then the look in his eyes becomes more serious as they go to fix on your shoulder and the dried blood that surrounds your wound. “What do you want me to do?” he asks, coming to stand in front of you. 

 

You take a moment just to swallow. Your head feels dizzy. Your hand fumbles for another disinfectant wipe and for a moment, not having the energy to do anything else, you just toy with it between your fingers. “Can you?”- You lift it up. 

 

He hurries forwards and takes it from you with an expression of great anxiety upon his face. 

 

You nod, feeling glad that he understands. 

 

He tears the packet open and pulls the wipe out. He readies it in his fingers, but he can’t seem quite able to push it against you. His hand jerks back and forth agitatedly. 

 

 _“Please,”_ you croak. 

 

He presses it to you all of a sudden and you let out a yell, before you bite at your lip and grab onto his arm. 

 

His hand jerks back from you in surprise. “Oh God F/N, I'm”- 

 

“Spray,” you mutter, tears springing to your eyes, “Try the spray instead.”

 

“Where?”- Mycroft says, dropping the wipe. 

 

Your fingers fumble for it through your blurred, teary vision. You pass it to him. 

 

He shakes the can, before he takes the lid off. 

 

You take a steadying breath to ready yourself and he steps closer to you. You turn your head away and grasp loosely onto his free hand. He swallows and sprays. 

 

 _“Ah!”_ your fingers tighten on his. He grits his teeth and sprays. _“Ah!”_ Another spray. “Ah,” you finish off more softly, before Mycroft puts the can aside, replaces its lid and makes to soothe your burning skin with his fingers. You swallow several times, breathing heavily. 

 

“That should be enough,” Mycroft murmurs. 

 

“Mmm,” you say, closing your eyes at the feel of his prickling fingers. 

 

Mycroft bites at his lip and pulls his hand away; as much as he wants to he doesn’t feel like it’s appropriate to be touching you right now. He steps back. “What do you need next?” he asks. 

 

Your eyes flicker open. You look at him tiredly, almost swaying where you sit. He comes forwards, cupping at your back with his hands to support you. “Shower,” you breathe. His eyes widen. “Shower.” He nods resolutely. 

 

Together, with Mycroft’s arm around your waist, you hobble towards the en-suite. Mycroft’s fingers seem to burn a hole into your skin more than the bullet. Your head spins. Suddenly you’re not sure if it’s just because of what you've been through that night. You swallow. 

 

Mycroft escorts you inside the cubicle until you’re leaning against the far side-wall, your fingers splayed. He clears his throat and makes to turn around. Suddenly you feel scared. _“Stay.”_ Mycroft freezes. “Please, I-I don’t want to be without you any more, I killed”-Mycroft turns around-“I killed Nathaniel, I-I don’t want to”- Mycroft steps forwards, his hands go to your hair at the same time yours go to his arms-“I don’t want to think about it, please,” you beg, looking at him imploringly with wide, desperate e/c eyes. 

 

“What do you need?” Mycroft asks hoarsely. 

 

Your lips part to let out a shaky breath. “Wash me.”

 

The air around you seems to freeze, before it crackles with energy. 

 

Mycroft eyes you calculatingly for a moment, before he nods. He reaches up slowly to twist the shower on. You let out a gasp as the water rains down upon you both. Mycroft lowers his hand and looks at you. You lean against him more heavily, tilting your head down so that the water won’t go into your eyes. It’s then you notice the angry red marks that gleam on Mycroft’s chest. You can just make them out beneath the parting of his shirt. You pull back his shirt with frantic, scrabbling hands. You gasp, your fingers shaking as you keep the shirt back, whilst your eyes look at the angry, red cuts that are there. 

 

“You said that you weren’t hurt,” you say in anguish as you look back up at him. 

 

“I wasn't, not as much as you,” Mycroft protests. 

 

You pull the shirt off him roughly, wincing at your own pain and causing him to wriggle and let out choked gasps. You stare down in horror as the full extent of what Mycroft’s been through starts to dawn on you. “Th-Those bastards!” you get out, crouching down so that your face is level with Mycroft’s stomach. Your fingers prod at the small separated lines there, suggestive that someone has tried to staple the flesh together. 

 

Mycroft’s jaw clenches and he looks at the wall rather than at you when he says, “I suppose it’s my fault for being fat, for needing rescuing.”

 

You let out an anguished breath, before you swoop forwards and press a delicate kiss to his stomach. “You’re not fat, you've lost weight, and even before”- 

 

Mycroft swallows and wriggles, _“F/N”-_

 

You stand up on shaky legs and embrace him, bringing his head down to the side of yours with a cupped hand. “I'm sorry,” you gasp, “I'm so sorry for all of this, I should have tried to stop you joining”-

 

“Don’t apologize,” Mycroft begins firmly, “None of this”-

 

“My family”-

 

“Yes, well”- Mycroft’s hands tighten on your back-“Perhaps we’ll talk about them later, but, for now, I believe that you wanted me to wash your shoulder?” He leans away from you and you let out a choked gurgle.

 

Taking that as a yes Mycroft steps forwards. Your breath hitches in your chest as he eyes you calculatingly. You release it when he slowly begins to rub the water that’s falling against your shoulder. You gasp and grip onto his waist at the initial contact, tears springing to your eyes. Slowly, at the rhythmic feel of his hands working away your breaths start to get under better control. You pant steadily. But then his hand comes into sudden contact with your bra strap and it makes you both jump. 

 

“Take it off,” you tell him, looking past the side of him. 

 

_“What?”_ he breathes. 

 

Your eyes go back to him. “I need to be properly washed. We both do.”

 

Mycroft swallows and eyes you consideringly, before his eyes slide around to your back, reaching for the clasp. Your breaths hitch in your chest, but there’s nothing to get excited for yet. His hands are clumsy and wet, slick with soap and he can’t get it undone. He flushes even more beneath the warm water and lets out a frustrated breath. You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a giggle, before you push your head against his chest. Mycroft feels a jolt of something go through him. At the feel of you so close, his face goes from shocked to something tenderer. He finally gets the clasp undone. Then, with one hand loosely around one of the straps and the other on your waist as your head lies just to the side of his, he asks, “Did you mean it?”

 

You nod, knowing what he means automatically. Knowing that he’s asking if you’d meant it when you said that you loved him earlier. You pull back from him, letting out a bit of a sound. 

 

Then, as if your damaged bodies have been saving up the last of their reserves for this, they come swooping together. Your bra falls to the floor between you. Mycroft’s mouth meets yours for an open-mouthed kiss. You squeak and he groans. Lots of ‘mmning’ noises are made as your mouths smack together and your hands go first to Mycroft’s arms and then to his back. He cradles you close, before he pushes you back. The water crashes down over you. 

 

Finally, when the both of you are considerably struggling for breath, you wrench your mouths away from each other’s. Mycroft staggers back and off to the side, leaning against the wall for support. You tilt your head back, gasping for breath, your hands splayed against the wall. 

 

“We need to rest,” he chokes out. 

 

You nod tiredly, and though all of his and all of your clothes are finally removed and you help wash each other-using soap on everywhere apart from where it would be too painful-there is little energy for a proper exploration of each other’s bodies. Instead Mycroft presses the lightest of kisses to your breasts in between washing them and parts your legs gently, threading his soapy fingers carefully through your curls, whilst you lean back against the wall, breathing hard. You help him wash the blood off his chest, making tender strokes against his skin, before you leave him to wash the rest of himself. You stagger out of the shower and dry each other carefully, before Mycroft helps apply a large, square bandage to your shoulder wound, whilst you instruct him tiredly. 

 

Naked, and more exhausted than either of you have ever been in your lives, you fall into bed together underneath the covers a few moments later, intent on only sleep. 

 

But as both of your heads push down against the pillows your bodies wriggle towards each other’s nonetheless, drawn to one another even in the haze of murky tiredness. 

 

You fall asleep on your back with Mycroft’s arm draped across you and his head tucked into your side. 

 

*

 

When you wake sunlight is pouring into the room, but it is still early. You blink, not remembering where you are at first until the ache of your body reminds you. You lift your head up off the pillow. 

 

Mycroft’s sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the window through the nearly transparent voile curtains. He’s wearing his grimy shirt again along with his boxer shorts and he seems to be thinking hard about something. His hands are together between his knees. “I’ve loved you for what seems like forever,” he mumbles. 

 

Your everything is hazy, but you can sense the importance of this conversation, so you blink and let out a sound of acknowledgement to show that you've heard, before you sit up and try to focus on him more, pulling the duvet up over you as much as you can. 

 

He looks around at you and smiles in a thoughtful fashion, before he looks back out. “Ever since I tried on your father’s suit that day,” he adds to his previous words, letting out a bit of a chuckle as if he can’t quite believe that its been so long. “When was it for you?”

 

“Later,” you murmur, pulling your pillow up and resting your back on it. Your shoulder feels tender as hell. You’ll probably have to change the bandage later on. “That-That first night at the drug den.”

 

Mycroft looks at you. _“Really?”_ he asks.

 

You nod. You swallow because you find that you feel rather emotional when you think back on it. His eyes meet yours, before they graze against your shoulder once more. “You were just lying there, next to your brother-next to Sherlock-and I-I just remember thinking that you looked so beautiful”-Mycroft’s eyes go to yours-“So beautiful, and that you were so amazing and brave, a-and courageous for looking after your brother like that”- Mycroft’s heart swells, he thinks it might burst-“I wanted to kiss you…”

 

Mycroft does not ask if it was worth the wait. Instead a more serious, thoughtful expression takes over his face, before he lets out a bit of a sigh and turns back to face the window.

 

“Mycroft?” you shift up. Your shoulder is painful and now you’re worried because of the sigh. 

 

“It wasn't supposed to be this way,” he says. Your heart freezes. He buries his head into his hands. 

 

“What is it?” you murmur, shifting towards him until you’re sitting beside him. 

 

“I just mean,” Mycroft says, slipping off his shirt and handing it to you. You put it on gratefully. “That right now, after everything, I feel quite tempted to stay here with you, in this one room forever, or at the most pop back home, get Mummy and Sherlock and then go off together, the four of us and live somewhere”-

 

“But?”

 

“But we _can’t,”_ Mycroft breathes, looking down at you. You swallow. “I”- he struggles, “Despite everything that’s happened tonight, despite how I feel and despite how much I want to protect you, I, when it comes down to it, the only solution”-

 

“Is for us to go back?” you interrupt him knowingly. 

 

Mycroft nods hollowly. Tears begin to stream down his face and he lets out a shuddery breath as he runs a hand back through his hair. You bite at your lip and place a hand soothingly on his back. He looks at you. “I'm sorry, but when it comes down to it, that job-that job’s the best chance I’ve ever had to make something of myself”-

 

“There are other jobs, other ways”- you begin a little determinedly. 

 

“I know, but”- 

 

“You don’t belong out there in the field Mycroft. Certainly not with those bastards. You should be doing something with that brain of yours, and if Father’s got his own agenda where he won’t let you use it then”-

 

“I”-

 

“Father said that if I went after you then we’d both be out of a job,” you blurt out. Mycroft looks at you. Any hope for his future seems to die in his eyes. “But”-you take a breath-“I don’t think he’d actually ever be able to keep that promise.” Mycroft’s brow furrows. “For one thing, unless he wants to bring the family into shame then he’s going to have to cover up everything that happened last night. If he chooses to still sack us anyway then everyone will know that something has gone on.”

 

“So you think that we’ll be able to go back without too much”- 

 

“Fanfare and chaos ensuing? Yeah,” you tell him, but then your face becomes serious once more. 

 

“What is it?” Mycroft asks, his hand going to yours, before he squeezes it. 

 

You swallow and let out a bit of a sigh. “He thinks that we’re together, something that before now”- you wave a hand. 

 

Mycroft lets go of your hand, releases a bit of a breath and looks towards the window, “Is that’s why?”- he begins, piecing it together quickly.

 

“Yeah,” you mutter resentfully, “That’s what last night was really about.”

 

Mycroft swallows. He grasps quickly at your hand, before he lets go of it. “We can’t be together.” He stands up. 

 

“I thought you might say that.”

 

He looks around at you. “I-I don’t mean,” he changes tack, “Of course I _want_ us to be together, but outwardly at least”-

 

“It won’t mean anything though,” you shake your head, “He already thought that we were together when we weren’t.”

 

Mycroft swallows and paces back and forth in front of you for a moment, his head bowed. “In that case,” he says, looking back at you, “Perhaps it would be best if you started to see someone else”-your mouth opens-“Jacob or Jerusalem or whatever he’s called”-

 

 _“Jasper?”_ you suggest. 

 

“Yes, him,” Mycroft nods, looking irritated, “To give us some time so that I can try and figure out another job or something.”

 

You look at him for a moment, thinking about it all. “I’ve got an idea,” you say hesitantly, “Although it’s a little… _reckless.”_

 

“More reckless than following me into a trap?” Mycroft asks you almost teasingly as he sits down beside you again. “If it wasn't for you I”- he adds more seriously.

 

“Don’t think about it,” you tell him, closing your eyes and squeezing at his hand.

 

“You saved my life”-

 

“I took Nathaniel’s,” you say, opening your eyes, “He might have been a bastard, b-but he didn't deserve”-

 

“Yes he did. He wasn't exactly a very nice man,” Mycroft says fervently, but he sounds a little breathless too, as if he can hardly believe that he’s being thankful for someone’s death. You look at him. “He would have killed you.” You swallow and look away. Your breaths go a little shuddery. You can’t bear to think about it. You don’t know what’s right or wrong about what you did last night. All you know is that you've got this pounding pain that’s both physical and emotional inside of you and you want it to stop. Mycroft must know that you need to be distracted right now because he asks, “Go on. What’s this plan of yours?”

 

You hesitate, open your mouth and tell him.


	8. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and you struggle to find your place in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter! 
> 
> Thank you as ever for all of your support. :) 
> 
> I hope you think that this is a fitting end. :)

Back in Blighty you take Mycroft’s hand and hobble as confidently as you can on the path leading up to your house. You push the door open. Your grip on it slips and it crashes back with a loud bang, startling a maid whose crossing the hallway and making your mother, whose coming from the kitchen gasp and clutch at her chest. 

 

Her face softens as soon as she sees you, before it hardens again. “Right, follow me,” she says. 

 

Mycroft and you exchange a glance, before you both move forwards after her. She leads you up the stairs and towards your father’s study. You try to follow her quickly, but you slow a little on the stairs and Mycroft puts an arm around your waist to support you. He lets go of you once you reach the top and you grab at his hand and squeeze at it briefly, before you move forwards to where your mother is now waiting outside your father’s study door. You turn around again though once you sense that Mycroft’s not following you. 

 

He’s standing there, wearing an uncertain look upon his face. His lips part. Your face softens and you move back towards him. “It’ll be okay,” you say, gripping onto his arms. You peck him on the lips, missing the way that your mother’s eyes darken as you do so. “Come.”

 

He swallows, looks at you for another moment and nods. You take his hand again and lead him forwards. 

 

Your mother turns and pushes open the study door, before she leads your small party inside. 

 

Your father rises from his desk. Tom and Tom’s mentor Jake, who are sat in front of your father’s desk, look around. 

 

“What is the meaning of this interruption?” your father asks, barely glancing at you and acting as if you've never been away. 

 

Mother folds her arms. “Perhaps you’d like to suspend your current meeting dear? We have some rather important matters that I wish for us to discuss.”

 

You swallow as Father clears his throat and nods for the two men to leave. You know that if you’d just asked that question then it would have turned into a full-blown argument, but mother’s always been the one person who father can’t say no to. Father walks around his desk as Tom and Jake hurriedly exit the room. 

 

Silence falls. 

 

Father looks at Mycroft. “I think you better leave young man, this is”-

 

“No,” you interrupt cuttingly, “He stays Father. Since you tried to have him killed it’s the least you can do.”

 

Father clears his throat and you get the sense that the only reason he doesn’t argue is because your mother nods at him, before she joins him. For a moment Mycroft and you just look at your parents, whilst they stare back at you. 

 

“What is the meaning of this?” your father finally asks with pursed lips. 

 

You take a step forwards, “I want our jobs back”-

 

“I thought that you believed you were better off without them?” your father asks, taking a step of his own towards you. 

 

You hesitate. Your chest feels tight and like you can’t breathe properly. “I-I was wrong,” you admit with a bow of your head. 

 

Mycroft looks at you. Father chuckles darkly, “Now we’re getting somewhere.” You look up and meet his eyes. He strolls even closer towards you, before he stops in front of you. “Were you also wrong in going off abroad so recklessly?” he asks, “In forcing your mother to divulge information about an operation that you should never have been privy to? Have you seen the error of your ways? Will you stop this foolishness and finally start acting your age?”

 

“No Father, I probably won’t start acting my age any time soon, or do any of those other things. For the record, it was Mother who sent the information to me, I didn't force her to,” you reply. You take Mycroft’s hand in your own. “For another thing,” you breathe, “Whilst it was true that Mycroft and I were not together, before either of us went abroad, it would be wrong to say that we’re not together now”-

 

_“Aha!”_ Father exclaims, “And you've come here asking for our blessing have you? Well, what’s to say that you both didn't just plan to announce your relationship this way when you saw that there was no choice? What’s to say that you haven’t just been together all this time?” 

 

“There’s nothing Father, nothing to say either of those things”-you take a breath-“For once you’ll just have to forget all your fancy gadgetry and take me on trust.” Father tilts his chin upward and looks down his nose at you haughtily. “No,” you go on, “I haven’t come here asking for your blessing. You've made it quite plain that you’ll never give it. But let me tell you this, Mycroft and I do want our jobs back, and if you don’t give them to us then we’ll tell everyone about what happened in Morocco, and we will make them believe. You think that people aren't already talking about how odd it is that you sent a new recruit there?”-

 

“Clara and Prunella have been dismissed,” Father interrupts. 

 

You make a frustrated sound. “There’ll be others, wondering, _whispering”-_

 

“Then they will be dismissed too,” Father blusters, avoiding your eyes. 

 

You let out a breath. “Fine, don’t give us our jobs back”-

 

Your father looks up. “I _will_ give you, your jobs back, on one condition”-Mycroft and you both freeze up and hold your breaths-“You are to end this silly liaison with one another and you are to marry someone that both your mother and I select for you.”

 

Mycroft and your breaths both hitch in your chests, but it is your mother who has the oddest reaction-she gasps. 

 

Everyone looks at her. She places a worried hand against her brow, before she turns and leans against the desk, her palms splayed across it. She takes a couple of breaths and for a moment you wonder if she might be about to have a heart attack. Mycroft and you exchange a glance. You take a step forwards. 

 

“I'm not happy about this,” she looks at your father, “You know I'm not. I'm not happy about all the lies and the division that’s been going on in this house.” She straightens up. “I'm not happy that our daughter felt that she had no other choice but to go ahead and put her life at risk for this boy. I'm not happy that she’s clearly been hurt because of it, and I'm not happy that-in spite of how reckless and foolish she can be-you’re happy to jeopardize her future happiness. This has all got to stop now.”

 

You look at her incredulously. For the first time you properly realize that things haven’t just changed for you, whilst you've been away, but they've changed here too. 

 

She takes a bit of a shuddery breath and looks at you. “So,” she says, taking a step forwards, “This is what I propose. This boy and you shall be given your jobs back”-Father opens his mouth but Mother raises her hand-“On the basis that you only see each other when permitted over the course of three months”-it’s your turn to open your mouth-“Absence makes the heart grow fonder F/N,” Mother sings. “If, by the end of that time you still feel how you claim to now towards each other then our blessing shall be given and an engagement party will be thrown here for you at the mansion. If, as I suspect will happen, you decide in that time that you are better off as friends, then F/N you must agree to your Father and I choosing a more suitable partner for you. In the meantime young man”-she turns towards Mycroft-“You will be given the chance to prove yourself in the organization by analysing data like you should have been doing in the first place”-she casts her husband a dark look-“You should bear in mind that you will not only be trying to do well for yourself, but that you should also take this time to prove to us that you’re worthy of our daughter.” Mycroft nods and swallows. Your mother turns back to you. She raises an eyebrow. “Well? Do you accept those terms?”

 

You bite at your lip, thinking about everything that she’s just said. “When you say that Mycroft and I will only be allowed to see each other when permitted?”-

 

“A weekend in the middle of each month will be chosen. You will be able to see each other on both days, but only at the mansion. You will tell no one of your relationship. At work, unless it is strictly business, you will not be able to talk or communicate with each other in any way. I will take your phone from you F/N, and if I find that any of those rules have been flouted in any way then I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that you will never receive my blessing.”

 

You swallow. Mycroft squeezes at your hand. “Can we have a moment alone?”

 

Mother nods, and Father and she leave the room. 

 

You swallow, let go of Mycroft’s hand and totter around the room.

 

“What do you think?” Mycroft asks quietly when you walk back to him feeling a little dizzy. 

 

You take his hands in yours, “I think,” you murmur, “That as much of a pain as it’s going to be, we’ll have to go along with it.”

 

“But if it’s a trap? If they turn around at the end of the three months and don’t give us their blessing? If they try and kill me in the meantime?”- Mycroft reels off. 

 

You shake your head and put a finger thoughtfully to your lip. “Father knows that Mother will be watching him like a hawk now,” you pull your finger away, “So I don’t think he’ll try and kill you again. By giving us this option Mother’s trying to buy our peace, but she’s being sneaky. She thinks that by giving us some time to truly think whether we want each other in that way we’ll come to the conclusion that we don’t. Then, I’ll, thinking that I’ve made my own mind up on the matter, will have little choice but to succumb to her long-term wishes for me after all.” Mycroft swallows. You bite at your lip, before you take his other hand in yours. “So I’d still”-you keep your voice lowered-“Look into other jobs, discreetly though, that way, even if they don’t give us their blessing at the end of the three months and we’re forced out, we’ll have an alternative. Perhaps try digging around to see if there’s anything suitable going in other government departments.” Mycroft nods. You swallow. “I guess it’s only three months,” you try to reassure yourself, letting go of him and rubbing at your arms. “At least they’re not saying that we can’t see each other completely.”

 

“Still,” Mycroft murmurs, putting his hands delicately on your waist, “It’ll be odd.”

 

*

 

It _is_ odd to say the least. Odd not to be able to meet Mycroft for lunch. Odd not to be able to talk to him when you catch a tantalizing glimpse of each other at work. Odd not to have his texts or calls to look forward to throughout the day or in the evening…it makes you realize just how used you are to having his presence in your life. 

 

An agonizing month passes. A month of missing him and daydreaming about how it would feel to have his lips on yours when you’re not both injured or stressed up to your eyeballs. 

 

Finally the first weekend where he’s permitted to come to the mansion to see you falls. Unfortunately it coincides with a visit from your sister, her husband and their three tear away daughters. To say that you’re not amused by this and by the fact that Mycroft and you will have to act like you’re just friends is an understatement. You quite suspect that its been done as a deliberate test by your parents. 

 

Still, as that Saturday morning dawns, it would be quite a lie to say that you’re more annoyed by that then you are excited to see Mycroft. You get out of bed eagerly and make an effort with your clothes for once, putting on a nice, blue summer dress with a white cardigan to accommodate the warmer weather and the smell of freshly cut grass that tickles your nose through the open window. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you take in your appearance in the mirror. You even find yourself humming as you go downstairs for breakfast.

 

“Bit cheerful aren't you?” your sister comments, leaving the dining room with a green apple just as you enter it. 

 

You give her a bit of a glare and swallow. You curse yourself. At this rate you’re going to give the game away. 

 

“Aunt F/N! Aunt F/N!” the terrible three chorus from where they’re sitting around the table, sloppily eating cereal. 

 

“Morning,” you murmur, nodding to them, before you nod to your mother and father. 

 

You slide into where a place has been laid for you and make to help yourself to some cereal. 

 

“Good morning F/N,” Father says, “The girls have been waiting to ask you a question.”

 

Your eyes go suspiciously from your father to the girls. 

 

“We wanted to ask you to a tea party,” Amelia-five and the middle-aged of the three- says, looking at you with stubborn eyes between her curtains of blonde hair. Six-year-old Sophie, whose got a darker complexion nudges at sandy brown haired four-year-old Eva who giggles, whilst chewing on her toy bear more than her breakfast.

 

“Tea party?” you enquire with a raised brow, at the same time as your father, chuckling amicably, makes to leave the room. 

 

“Yes, we’re holding one this morning in the playroom,” Sophie says importantly. 

 

_“Ah,”_ you say delicately with a glance at your mother.

 

“Well, Mycroft’s not coming until eleven dear,” she shrugs. 

 

You frown a little. You’d rather been hoping to take a walk in the garden this morning and perhaps spy him coming, save you both the bother of having to be cooped up in the house. Save you also from being spied on as much. 

 

“Who’s My-croft?” Amelia asks, only with her lisp it sounds more like, ‘My-cwoft.’

 

You swallow. 

 

“Mycroft’s F/N’s friend from work who’s coming over to see her today,” your mother says, avoiding everyone’s eyes by choosing that precise moment to add a lump of sugar to her tea. 

 

“Tell him not to come,” Sophie whines at you, “This is a girl’s only tea party”-

 

You pull a bit of a face, “Oh, but”-

 

“You see him all the time at work, so what’s the problem?” Sophie interrupts.

 

“That’s not quite true girls,” Mother says, thankfully coming to your rescue, “Things have been very hectic at work lately and this will be the first time Mycroft and F/N have had a proper chance to see each other in a month.”

 

Sophie looks both thoughtful and troubled. You hold your breath. Suddenly Amelia starts tugging at her sleeve. 

 

“What?” Sophie looks at her, sounding frustrated. 

 

“We could make it a special tea party,” Amelia suggests. 

 

Your mother and you exchange a look that’s full of raised eyebrows. 

 

“All right,” Sophie announces, “A special tea party it is!”

 

*

 

That’s how you find yourself, at the time when Mycroft’s nearly due, kneeling in the centre of the playroom around a pink, circular plastic table and drinking tea that’s nearly cold out of an equally pink, plastic cup. Your closest neighbours are two dolls who are perched on makeshift chairs. Amelia and Sophie kneel opposite you, whilst Eva, who’s acting like the waitress, hovers nearby. 

 

Your eyes keep darting to the circular, red-framed clock that’s hanging on the wall. The hands inch all too slowly closer to eleven. Your eyes glide down to the door, as if Mycroft might burst inside at any moment. You can’t wait to see him. You suppose that you should be trying to focus more on the present though, so you take a sip of your lukewarm tea in an attempt to distract yourself. 

 

“Can we do your hair Auntie F/N?” Amelia asks as Sophie and she get up to come either side of you. Amelia’s chubby and slightly sticky hands go to your h/c hair. 

 

You pull away from her a little. “Um, no that’s all right thank you,” you say, not wanting them to mess it up, before Mycroft arrives, “I thought we were meant to be having a tea party?”

 

Sophie and Amelia exchange a glance, “We are, but we could make it more than just one thing,” Sophie says.

 

“I want to do F/N’s hair!” Eva pipes up, putting down the pink plastic teapot. 

 

“You’re too young,” Sophie says, pushing her younger sister away. 

 

Eva lets out a frustrated, angry squeal and stamps at the floor, clenching her hands. 

 

_“Sophie”-_ you begin warningly. 

 

“Let Amelia and I do your hair Aunt F/N. It won’t take long, we can do braids now,” Sophie says, once again seemingly full of her own importance. 

 

“Er, okay, but let Eva do”-

 

“She can do your nails,” Amelia says, and you sigh inwardly, but force yourself to smile as Eva runs off to get the nail varnish. 

 

She comes racing back carrying about ten different colours and your heart sinks. You really don’t want multi-coloured nails today. 

 

“Can’t you”-

 

“Your nails are going to be so pretty,” Eva exclaims, and you don’t have the heart to protest any further. 

 

Reluctantly you place your hands on the table. Sophie and Amelia take one side of your hair each. 

 

“Now, you have to tell us all of your secrets,” Amelia announces. 

 

_“What?”_

 

“You have to Auntie F/N,” Amelia begs, “That’s what Mummy says, she says that whenever she goes to the hairdresser’s she reveals all of her secrets. She just can’t help it.” Sophie and Eva giggle. 

 

_‘Not all I hope,’_ is what you can’t help but think, after all the fact that your parents run MI6 is not something that should be gossiped about. But to the girls you just say, “I never agreed to that.”

 

“But Auntie F/N!” Sophie pouts. 

 

“Let’s just get on with doing my hair and nails shall we? Mycroft will be here in a minute.” _‘Thank God,’_ is what you add in your head. 

 

Sophie and Amelia giggle and exchange another glance. 

 

You frown. Maybe you shouldn't have mentioned Mycroft. 

 

Sure enough, “What’s he like Auntie F/N? Is he a _special_ friend?” is what Sophie comes up with. 

 

Your hands begin to fidget automatically, nearly upsetting Eva’s work. You force them to still. “If you mean have we been friends for long? Then yes, we've been friends for a while.”

 

For some reason that makes all three girls giggle. 

 

“What?” you ask, looking around at Sophie with a raised eyebrow. 

 

That just seems to set them off even more. 

 

Sophie frantically waves her hands to try and suppress her giggles, sending a strand of your hair up into the air as she does so. “It’s nothing Aunt F/N,” she says, exchanging a glance with Amelia who gets even gigglier. 

 

“Well, it definitely sounds like”-

 

“Mummy said that girls and boys can _never_ just be friends”-

 

_‘She would,’_ is what you immediately think, before you frown, “Well that’s a load of rubbish”- you break off, starting when you hear a knock on the door through the window. You swallow. “That’ll be him,” you say, your face clearing as you half-get up. 

 

“Your nails! Your nails!” Eva wails. 

 

“I’ll go,” Sophie volunteers, shooting Amelia a secretive smile, before she hurries out of the room.

 

You sigh and kneel back down. 

 

*

 

Mycroft shifts his position outside the front door, clears his throat and carefully combs his fingers through his hair for what feels like the millionth time. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt and brushes down the jacket of his grey, pinstripe three-piece suit, wishing that there were some glass panels in the door so that he could be guided by his reflection. 

 

He can’t know that somewhere above him, right at this moment, you’re frantically trying to get Eva to finish your nails, whilst you make Amelia check that both sides of your hair match and are evenly braided. 

 

Mycroft considers going across to one of the windows to use their reflection, or to knock on the door again because no one seems to have heard him, but-

 

_“Ah,”_ he says as a little girl opens the door. She stands aside and he steps in, looking around the entrance hall curiously and hoping that he might see your face. He doesn’t. In fact the entrance hall is oddly vacant. 

 

“You must be here to see F/N,” the little girl says. 

 

Mycroft’s face clears as he looks at her. “Yes, do you”-

 

“She’s upstairs,” the girl says promptly, “But I can take you to her.” She steps forwards and takes his hand. “I'm Sophie,” she announces.

 

“Oh,” he says, before he introduces himself as, “Mr. Mycroft Holmes.” For some reason that makes the girl giggle. 

 

“You’re very tall,” Sophie tells him as she leads him upstairs, “And you’re all dressed up too, even though you’re not working. Did you do it for F/N?”

 

“Erm”- Mycroft begins, his free hand fidgeting with his tie as the girl leads him across the landing and then up another flight of stairs. 

 

“You don’t say much do you?” Sophie asks, scrutinizing him seriously. 

 

“Um”-

 

“Oh well, we’re here now,” she says, pushing the door of the playroom open. 

 

Mycroft’s face fills with relief as soon as he sees you. You get to your feet. 

 

_“Mycroft,”_ you breathe. 

 

“F/N,” he says, going over to you. “It’s _so_ good to see you again.” 

 

Neither of you notice how the girls are all eyeing you both intently; you've only got eyes for each other. 

 

Mycroft puts his hands on your waist and kisses both your cheeks, whilst you grasp onto his shoulders. 

 

You step back from each other and exchange a meaningful look. “It’s good to see you again too,” you tell him, fidgeting a little with the sleeves of your cardigan. 

 

“Your nails! Your nails!” Eva cries. 

 

“Oh yeah.” You stop fidgeting and awkwardly kneel down by the pink table again. 

 

Mycroft kneels opposite you. 

 

The girls giggle and Eva brings you both fresh cups of cold tea. 

 

“It’s er…” you say, toying with the cup a little and indicating that it’s not very good.

 

“I'm sure it’s”- Mycroft begins, before he takes a little sip out of his pink cup. You can’t help but smile. _How_ you've missed him! “Ah,” he murmurs, withdrawing his cup from his lips and wrinkling his nose a little. You grin. “How are you?” he says, lowering his cup on the table and leaning forwards as his eyes go to your shoulder.

 

“I'm okay,” you say, fidgeting a little with your cardigan and smoothing down your dress. You feel awkward because there’s so many things that you wish to say. You want to tell him that your shoulder’s getting better, but that its been a struggle. Especially in the night when no matter which way you turn it aches. You want to tell him that you’d longed for him to hold you during such times. You want to tell him that you've cried on and off about what had happened in Morocco and over your forced separation all month. But most of all you want to tell him that you love him and that you just want this time to be over so that you can be together and everything can be mostly all right again. But you can’t say any of that. Not in front of the girls. It feels like you can’t say anything at all in fact. 

 

“You look very nice F/N,” Mycroft tells you sincerely, in the hope that it will stop you from thinking too much as you are clearly doing. 

 

You blush and tuck a piece of hair back, “Oh thanks, you do too.”

 

“Told you,” Sophie grins, “Told you that boys and girls can’t just be”-

 

You cough loudly. “Sorry about all this,” you tell him, fiddling with your hair a little, “They wanted a tea party and”-

 

“It’s quite all right,” Mycroft interrupts, smiling a little and looking suddenly thoughtfully amused as he takes in your multi-coloured nails and your rather clumsy strands of braided hair. You blush. You must look so silly to him. 

 

A silence naturally follows where Mycroft and you glance at each other and then look hurriedly away again. The girls giggle. 

 

“Would you like a biscuit?” Eva asks, stepping forwards and presenting a plastic biscuit to Mycroft.

 

You open your mouth. 

 

“Ah no, no thank you,” Mycroft says, looking a little embarrassed. 

 

Eva pouts and hands it out towards him even more. 

 

“You better take it,” you mutter apologetically, taking one from Amelia. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes dart between Eva and you. “A-All right,” he says, his eyes going back to the little girl. He makes to take the biscuit from her, but-

 

“That’ll be one pound twenty,” Eva announces, looking happier. 

 

Sophie and Amelia giggle. 

 

“That’s a rather expensive biscuit,” Mycroft comments, but Eva just shrugs as if to say that she doesn’t come up with the prices. 

 

He looks at her for a moment, before his hand darts awkwardly to his pocket as if he’s really going to pay her for it. 

 

Feeling flustered you hurriedly place your hand on top of his other one, which is on the table. You start as soon as you touch it though, for you feel an energy that you hadn’t expected, and your hand jerks away again as Mycroft’s head swivels to look at you. 

 

“I-I”- he says, whilst your mouth opens. You know that he’d just felt that energy too. 

 

You clear your throat, your eyes going back to Eva. “Eva let Mycroft have the biscuit please. It’s only fair since I didn't have to pay for mine.”

 

Eva looks as if she’s about to cry. Her bottom lip trembles, before she slams the biscuit down hard on the table and turns around. 

 

You sigh a little. “You can do my nails again tomorrow if you don’t make a fuss now.” 

 

Slowly, and looking brighter, she turns around, offering you both more tea. 

 

Mycroft and you can’t exactly turn her down, so you both accept a little more grudgingly. 

 

“Don’t forget your biscuits,” Eva reminds you cheerfully as she settles the teapot back down on the table again. 

 

You inwardly sigh, but your hand goes to pick up the biscuit automatically. You pretend to nibble consideringly at the edge of it for a moment. _“Mmm,”_ you say, just about convincingly, whilst you feel like an idiot. Why did Mycroft have to come today of all days? Why did you have to be doing this? 

 

Eva smiles, her gaze going to Mycroft. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat and picks up the biscuit with clumsy fingers, which makes you smile. He sends you an awkward look, before he mimes munching on it. 

 

You suppress a grin, and your eyes dart to Mycroft’s lips, before you quickly look away again. Sophie and Amelia giggle. 

 

When Eva nods Mycroft lowers his biscuit in relief and looks back to you. 

 

Sophie and Amelia sidle up to him. You, sensing danger, open your mouth, but before you can say anything Amelia asks, “Are you F/N’s boyfriend?”

 

Mycroft’s eyes widen and you both look at each other for a moment, before you look hurriedly away again. 

 

“Er no,” Mycroft coughs embarrassedly as pink dots light up his cheeks, “We just work together.”

 

“Girls, it was made clear before Mycroft came that we just work together,” you remind them severely, trying to save Mycroft further blushes. 

 

“So you've never even kissed?” Amelia asks, swinging her arms back and forth. 

 

Mycroft and you both look at each other again. Your mind goes back to the shower that night in Morocco and the franticness of it all, the desperation you’d both felt. You know that he’s remembering it too. The air crackles between you. 

 

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, looking away from you. 

 

You let out a breath that you didn't even realize you’d been holding. 

 

“But Mummy says”-

 

“Would you like to go for a walk in a minute Mycroft? After-After you've finished your tea?” you interrupt, looking at Mycroft pleadingly. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft says, looking back at you. He sounds relieved, “Yes, I think a walk would be quite pleasant.”

 

You let out another breath and smile at him. You both force the tea down you quickly, before, in unison, you get to your feet. 

 

“Well,” you say rather awkwardly, “Thank you for the tea party girls.”

 

Mycroft nods at them, which sets off another round of giggling. 

 

He lets you leave the room first and then you both set off down the hallway together. You can sense the girls stepping out of the room to watch you and hear their excited chattering. 

 

You swallow a couple of times, look at Mycroft and then look away again. 

 

“Where are you taking me?” he murmurs, itching to place one hand on your back, but not daring to. 

 

“I thought the garden,” you reply, “We can’t be necessarily guaranteed any more privacy there, _but…”_ you trail off. 

 

“It’s a nice day to be out anyway,” Mycroft nods, going along with it.

 

You round the corner, and just when you think that it might be safe to talk a little more about personal matters there comes a clattering of noise. The girls run past you in the next moment, making irritating smacking noises with their lips as they do so. You swallow all of your words back down, feeling embarrassed. 

 

Mycroft clears his throat. “They’re energetic.”

 

“Yeah,” you say faintly, your hands fidgeting together. 

 

“F/N,” Mycroft says suddenly, _desperately,_ as he places a hand on your arm. You stop automatically, looking down at it in both trepidation and alarm. “I-I want”-

 

A burst of laughter sounds close by, making you both jump. 

 

You start walking again. “Save it for the garden,” you murmur, your head bowed.

 

Mycroft follows after you. 

 

It’s a glorious relief to step outside into the summer sunshine. Even though it means passing by Mother and Father who are taking tea out on the patio. 

 

“Mother, Father,” you acknowledge them. 

 

Mycroft nods at them and mutters, “Mr. L/N, Mrs. L/N.”

 

Your parents nod and wear tight smiles in return. 

 

You lead Mycroft down the small slope of the garden and across to where a wooden swing hangs from one of the trees. You sit down on it with a little thump, letting out a breath as you do so. 

 

Mycroft stands beside you, and for a moment there is a comfortable silence between you. 

 

The pair of you watch as the girls come running out into the garden, spinning and running in circles with their arms outstretched. 

 

“What point did they keep trying to bring up at the tea party?” Mycroft asks, “Before you interrupted them?”

 

_“Oh,”_ you breathe, getting restlessly off the swing and gesturing for Mycroft to take your place. He does so and you tangle a hand around the swings rope, causing the whole thing to sway for a moment, whilst Mycroft eyes the girls thoughtfully. “They just got fixated on this silly thing my sister said, about girls and boys never being able to just be friends with one another.”

 

_“Oh,”_ Mycroft murmurs, looking at you briefly, before he looks away again with a bit of a flush on his face. 

 

“Stupid huh?” you comment. 

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft murmurs, coming off the swing. 

 

You move around to sit there and he stands beside you. 

 

You peer up at him. “Any luck finding another job?”

 

“There might be something,” Mycroft announces, his voice acting as a low undercurrent to the girls squeals and laughter. 

 

_“Oh?”_ you ask at the same time Sophie decides to shout, “Mycroft and F/N sitting in a tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G!” Amelia and Eva erupt with laughter, before it sends them all running around in a circle again. Your face burns. 

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft murmurs, before he sends a wary glance to both your parents and the girls. He moves behind you and gently begins to push you on the swing. 

 

“Well, don’t leave me in suspense,” you tell him. 

 

“I don’t want to say much here,” Mycroft informs you, as he stops pushing you, “But if it comes through then it should be more than enough to support us, at least for a little while.”

 

“I’d get a job too y’know?” you tilt your head back so that you can look at him. 

 

Mycroft hums, looking for a moment as if he’d quite like to place an upside down kiss to your lips, but then a cloud passes over his face again. 

 

“What?” you touch his hand where it’s curled around the rope. 

 

Mycroft’s hand jolts in alarm against yours and he looks back to your parents again. 

 

“It’s all right,” you soothe, “They never said that we couldn't touch each other’s hands did they?”

 

He swallows, looking a fraction more relieved, before he looks back at you. “I just don’t want anything going wrong.” 

 

“I know,” you breathe, standing up. 

 

This time, instead of going on the swing Mycroft moves towards you. You turn to face him. 

 

“You know,” he begins, looking most serious, “That if-if things, after the next couple of months don’t work out, that it could mean…well…your family,” he shrugs his shoulders hopelessly.

 

Your hand is halfway towards reaching for his cheek, before you remember yourself and let it drop back down again. “I know,” you say, looking down at the grass between your shoes. 

 

“I-I”- Mycroft begins and your eyes go up to him again, “I don’t,” he swallows. “You have to know that in the time we've been apart already, this-this last month has been absolute”-

 

_“Agony?”_ you breathe. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft nods fervently, “But I don’t-I don’t want to be the reason that you’re separated from them forever F/N.”

 

You nod slowly and let out a bit of a sigh, before you look across at your parents. They’re clearly watching both Mycroft and you, not even pretending to be doing otherwise. You look back at him. “I love you, that’s the bottom line,” you choke out, “A-And if they can’t see that, if they can’t _understand_ that, then that’s their problem. I'm not losing you.”

 

Mycroft steps closer to you. You can tell that he wants to put his hands on your waist and pull you close, but underneath your parents’ watchful gazes he can’t even do that. 

 

It’s torture. Torture to be this close to him and not even be able to kiss. 

 

You share a desperate look with one another. 

 

_“F/N,”_ Mycroft murmurs, and his voice is like warm honey. You close your eyes and for a moment you’re back in that shower again. Your bodies are crashing together. Your lips burning from each other’s kisses. 

 

You open your eyes and bite down on your lip. Your eyes become locked and so much passes between you. You can feel all the unspoken words, all the _love…_

 

“Somehow,” you vow, “Somehow we’ll be together,” and it takes a moment, before you realize that you've said the words aloud. 

 

Mycroft nods. 

 

*

 

“They seem to be…unfortunately, still quite close,” Mother says to Father as she eyes Mycroft and you from her seat on the patio. Her hand makes to stir her tea, which rests on the table, and there’s a chink as the silver spoon hits the china cup. 

 

“In two months things will be quite different I assure you,” is all Father replies. 

 

*

 

In two months, most regrettably for your parents, things are quite the same and Mycroft and you are still together. 

 

On the final Sunday that marks your tedious separation Mycroft comes around-as had been arranged-that afternoon, for a meeting with your parents and you in the study. 

 

Once more Mycroft and you stand facing them, and once more your parents stand judgementally in front of you. 

 

“Well,” Father says, eyeing your linked hands with distaste, “It appears that you are still together.”

 

Inside your head you say, _‘That’s not bad for the Head of MI6,’_ but out loud you say, “Yes Father,” before you look at your mother and attempt to push, “I expect that you’ll be wanting to hold an engagement party for us here as soon as possible?”

 

Something tightens around your mother’s mouth just as you’d expected it would. It had hurt you to think about it, but you’d known that if this situation ended the way it looks like it’s going to, then ultimately she’d choose both your father’s side and tradition. 

 

It’s your father though who says, “No, there will be no blessing of this union I'm afraid.”

 

You let out a shuddery breath, your father’s words, though not unpredicted, still coming to you as a blow. “Mycroft and I accepted the deal in good faith Father. We have kept to your terms”- Mother and Father look at each other-“It seems”- you let out a breath-“That the only thing we didn't do was split up like you wanted.”

 

Father clears his throat, “This union is ridiculous F/N, a silly ploy by you to rebel against us. You know as well as I do that”-

 

“This _union_ is love Father,” you tell him haughtily, “And if you cannot accept it then I'm afraid that I shall have to leave this house”-

 

“And go where?” your father demands, “Because if you think that you can leave now and that the pair of you will still hold jobs within this organization then”-

 

You take a step forwards. “Mycroft and I have not been idle Father,” you announce, “We suspected right from the off that, as much as I wished you to, the chances of you actually blessing our relationship was slim.”

 

“Why”- Father begins. 

 

Mycroft takes a step forwards, his grip tightening on you. “I have been offered a job in the government Mr. L/N. Whilst it is only a minor position I have every hope that”-

 

“Ha!” Father roars, “Think that’ll be enough to house you and feed you do you? Or do you perhaps expect F/N to live with you in the hovel that you call home?”

 

Anger churns through you. “That’s enough Father,” you say, tightening your hold on Mycroft and stepping forwards, “You will not insult him or where he lives any more, and yes, as it happens, it will be enough. Mycroft has procured a flat for us to live in, and with the job that I”-

 

_“You?”-_ Father nearly explodes. 

 

“Yes Father,” you say calmly, “I have found, through my own research on-line, that actually a huge number of people would be willing to pay for my art work”-

 

“Your little sketches?”-

 

“On top of the commissions that I now have I have found a job in an office that should supplement Mycroft’s income quite nicely”- you take a breath-“So you see Father, it might be your opinion that Mycroft and I will simply fall apart without your help, but I assure you that quite the opposite is true. In fact we will flourish”-you release another breath-“On that note Father, Mycroft and I hereby resign with immediate effect”-

 

_“F/N!”_ your mother gasps in horror. 

 

Your father waves a hand at her and moves back behind his desk, muttering something about lost causes. 

 

“I'm sorry Mother,” you say, letting go of Mycroft’s hand and going to hug her, “But I can’t stay here or attempt to place faith in corrupted deals any longer.” You take a step back and eye your parents, drinking in your father’s agitated face and your mother’s look of despair. “Mycroft and I have wasted enough time as it is.” You swallow and Mycroft steps forwards to take your hand. “I hope-I hope that someday, when you have stepped out of this old world into the new one, which is growing around you, brighter and bigger every day, that there might come a point of understanding between us. A point where you will be able to see why I did this. But until then I'm afraid that I'm going to have to leave.” You take another step back, eyeing your father. “Goodbye Father.” Your father just grunts, so you look towards your mother. “Goodbye Mother.” Your mother lets out a choking sound, and even after everything you find that it still nearly breaks you to turn your back on her. 

 

“F/N! Stay, please!” she calls out to you, before she implores her husband desperately, “Please, please don’t just stand there, do something.” 

 

But Father is silent. 

 

You feel both dizzy and sick. Walking away from your family, even though you know that it is the right choice, is still the hardest thing that you have ever done. 

 

Mycroft’s grip tightens on you. You look across at him gratefully. 

 

Gingerly you walk down the stairs, across the entrance hall and out of the door. Your things can be sent on to you, but for now you let out a whoosh of breath. Mycroft and you begin to make your way down the path. You’re three-quarters of the way along it when you just have to stop. Mycroft looks at you, no doubt worrying that you've changed your mind. 

 

“Sorry”-Mycroft’s heart lurches-“I-I just have to”- you break off, let go of him and turn around. “I just have to take one last look, it’s-it’s where I grew up after all.” Mycroft lets out a breath. 

 

You see the cold, intimidating house. You picture all the servants scurrying around inside. Your parents, perhaps still motionless in the study, feeling like they've been hit by an earthquake. It’s not until Mycroft puts an arm around your waist and pulls you close however that you realize something. 

 

He turns you towards him. “Is it odd,” he murmurs, “That I always, when I first began to fall in love with you, thought that, if we did kiss, it would happen in that house or somewhere equally as grand? That, that was where I, for the longest of times, believed that it would be the right place for it to happen? Because it was somewhere important?” You look at him. “I-I don’t regret what happened in Morocco between us though, of course I don’t, but i-it was never meant to be like that.”

 

“No it wasn't,” you murmur, turning your head to look at the house again, before you look back at him consideringly, “But, in that case, why don’t you kiss me right here, right now? It won’t be our first, but it will be the one that leads to the rest of our lives.”

 

Mycroft barely hesitates, before his lips are on yours, first soft then firm. You let out a breath against him, and then the feeling that you’d just realized surges up inside you even more. For the truth is you’re not leaving home. Home is right beside you. Home’s in the lanky, auburn-haired man with beautiful freckles and whose stomach will forever be scarred as a horrific reminder of that one night, which changed the both of your lives. Home’s in the voice, which has reassured you, made you laugh, and for the longest of times caused something to flutter inside you. Home’s in the body, which is pressed against yours, and in the lips that are hard against your own. Home’s in Mycroft Holmes, and that’s where it will forever be. 

 

*

In the years that follow Mycroft and you live in a flat and then a house once you have enough money to do so. He does very well for himself without your father’s assistance, and though outwardly he still maintains that he merely occupies a minor position in the British Government, you know in fact that he _is_ the British Government. One of the things he’s instrumental in doing, as soon as his power and reach extends to such, is a top-down re-organization of MI6, throwing out the old regulations and bringing in new, tighter ones, which will still allow the organization to do what it does, but in a more law-abiding and honest fashion. Of course there are still incidents. But to both Mycroft and your relief those are few and far between. You don’t exactly do badly yourself, becoming one of the most recognized artists and becoming well known in particular for your emotional pieces. Such emotion stems from that one night in Morocco, the struggles that both Mycroft and you have been through and your own difficult relationship with your parents. Along the way Mycroft and you get married and go on to have a daughter. You vow that she will never have to go through the same things that you did and vow that Mycroft and you will always be there for her, whenever she should need you. You never reconcile with your own parents.


End file.
